All In The Job
by Flamedancer33
Summary: 07-MV-- Dear Agent Simmons: Welcome to Psychoville, home to paranoid security officers, tempermental spies, and the average conspiracy theorist, population Too Many To Count And One More, Including You.
1. The Beginning

So I continue to branch out into various fandoms.

This was not an easy thing to write, mostly because my laptop's power cord broke right as I started and I was basically rushing to get this posted before the battery died. I obviously succeeded, go me, but now I can't use my laptop cause it's got like three percent battery life left.

And on a side note, does anyone know this poor guy's first name? It probably said it in the novel but I completely forgot, and the book has officially been swallowed by my house.

Disclaimer: If I got a nickel every time I had to type one of these stupid things I might be able to afford to buy the special edition DVD... Otherwise I'm SOL.

--

There were times, previously few and yet now fast multiplying, when a man couldn't help but hate his job.

Okay, so Simmons didn't really have much room to complain. He got a shiny badge, the slick suit, the President on speed dial. Sector 7 had been disbanded but he hung in some form of governmental limbo, too important and too knowledgeable to casually discard or replace. He was an Important Person, goddammit, and most everyone else treated him with due respect.

And yes, there was that very small, little-boy-sounding part of him that still went _giant alien robots! Squeeeee!_

But today was one of those why-me-God days, and Simmons hated it. He was sitting all but in Sergeant Epps' lap behind an Autobot-sized table someone had been clever enough to flip over. This closeness was necessary as most of the available space was taken up by Ratchet's bulk, which Simmons had stupidly thought of as only mildly impressive right up to the second the medic had vaulted over the table and landed about ten feet to the human's left. The impact had damn near rattled the fillings out of Simmons' teeth.

He couldn't complain too much, though, as Ratchet had proceeded to put his back to the table, holding it up against the barrage. The yellow 'bot was seething; growling and muttering and making all sorts of unfriendly noises in a manner honestly not too distinguishable from his normal behavior. He was also clenching his hands in a way they all recognized now, a way that meant he would soon be ramming someone's head into a wall until they ceased to be an annoyance. Occasionally there would be a _clang_ of metal hitting metal and the medic would bark out a string of curses a sailor would be proud of.

Simmons had the feeling that Epps was tolerating his presence only because neither of them wanted to attract Ratchet's attention.

Across the way two more humans were in similar conditions, although they were under a huge desk with a mech slightly bulkier than the medic. That 'bot, however, could be best described as confused, not homicidal, and the two humans happened to be dating and so had no issue with personal boundaries. Simmons hated them almost as much as he hated his job. He was going to hate it even more when the shooting stopped because he was between Ratchet and the other mech and the smart money said the medic had a bone or two to pick with him. Or whatever it was mechs had in place of bones.

"How much longer can this possibly last?" Simmons asked no one in particular. Epps gave a 'huh?' in response so the agent repeated it. Again. And again. Finally he was yelling at the top of his lungs and still receiving a blank look so he waved it off. Human voices were not meant to compete with shooting guns, bullets clanging against a metal table, and Ratchet's temper all at once.

Silence came so suddenly it seemed as loud as the noise preceding it. After several moments of echoes the second mech pulled himself out from under his desk and carefully peered around it. He then bounced- there was no better word- to his feet and vanished beyond the table.

Ratchet's engine was making a low rumbling, like an angry dog, and both Epps and Simmons scrambled away from him while they could. The older man braced his fists on his hips and scowled as he faced the other mech. They called him Wheeljack, because NBE-15 was apparently a rude thing to call him. Back when the engineer had first landed Simmons couldn't help but wonder how these beings decided on their names. Now he wondered how Wheeljack had managed to avoid a more appropriate name. Like Destructo-Bot.

" 'Oh no, I'm not as bad as they say. You have to understand, it's just the way the twins are, if you do one thing wrong they never let it go. I rarely have even small accidents, it's been forever since I've actually blown up my lab.'" Simmons sneered as he mocked the engineer. Wheeljack turned to face him, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy, but Simmons wasn't done yet. " 'You're perfectly safe here. Nothing can go wrong, I've done all the proper calculations and look- Ratchet's right next door. In the ridiculously small possibility of something going wrong he can be here just like that.'"

At the mention of the medic Wheeljack did a full-body flinch. The angry rumbling was getting louder, a thunderstorm looming on the horizon. Simmons, having been pinned behind a table and between a man who barely tolerated him and a mech verging on a justifiable massacre, was beyond caring.

"Only you forgot to mention that you were working on a security-defensive-whatever gun and _it could fire itself_ and oh, lookie there, it's going off. How do you get it to stop? You don't know, you only built the damn thing! Next time you wanna make something more dangerous than a Nerf ball, leave me out of it!"

Sam and Mikaela had come out from behind the desk to stand beside Epps and all three humans were now gaping at Simmons. Wheeljack was beyond kicked-puppy-hurt and almost to the point of getting angry himself. As was expected Mikaela found her voice first.

"You are an utter jackass, you know that?" she demanded. "It's not Wheeljack's fault the thing didn't work right. He doesn't deserve you screaming at him."

"Prime didn't give you access to the base so you could abuse his troops," Epps added darkly. Simmons massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Surely these idiots weren't actually defending that lunatic? But they were, he saw when he lifted his head. The three had formed a wall between man and mech.

"We were trapped. Behind a table. For five minutes. By a gun. That. Shoots. Itself." Simmons broke the sentence down into smaller bits since all three obviously had a few screws loose. "What does he deserve? An award?"

Before the snark-fest could truly begin, a certain 'bot that had been mostly forgotten in the wake of Simmons' tirade finally decided he'd had enough. With one hand he pushed the table over, ending all conversation as it boomed against the ground. Like a spectacular image of Zeus descending from the halls of Olympus Ratchet rose and turned. His actions were painfully slow, each movement aimed to intimidate. His expression was eerily serene but fury radiated off his body in almost-visible waves.

All four humans wisely got the hell out of the way.

Wheeljack seemed to shrink into himself, pulling as far away as he could. When the wall permitted no more retreat the engineer turned to his friend and, with a nervous little laugh, held out the malfunctioning gun- an offering to appease the god of vengeance. Ratchet proceeded to do nothing but stare, so Wheeljack made the ultimate mistake.

"Well, at least no one got hurt, right?"

Ratchet twitched, a quick spasm of restrained motion. "Not yet," he agreed blandly.

_Then_ he lunged.

--

There were times, Simmons mused, that he couldn't help but hate his job. That morning, with the self-firing gun, had been an ideal example.

Of course, tracking down Prime and explaining what had happened hadn't been easy. It had been very difficult to tell him that he might find himself lacking one engineer, as Ratchet had attempted to reduce Wheeljack to a funny-colored smear on the floor. As Simmons had reported, professional mask firmly in place, Ratchet had chased Wheeljack outside and the two had gone tearing through the desert as though their afts were on fire. And when Ratchet finally tired of that game, and his temper settled to a low simmer, he found that he had 'misplaced' Wheeljack. No one had seen the engineer for going on six hours now, Simmons blandly stated. Prime- looking like he wanted stuff both medic and engineer into a supply closet- had graciously dismissing the human. Naturally the hardest part of the whole encounter had been keeping a straight face.

There were times Simmons hated his job.

This was not one of them.


	2. It Ain't Gettin' Easier

Hey look, a one-shot with an equally pointless sequel! This brain-child was obviously born with severe autism. But I have a lot of fun taking jabs at various things through one of the fandom's most disliked characters. It's so much easier writing a canon character when you don't care if the reader hates or loves him.

On a technical note I don't know if the speed traps mentioned below actually exist. I just took a slight liberty with the real world because, c'mon, giant alien robots exist in that world. And yay for 'Jack-abuse, and I managed to give him a familiar-ish alt-form.

Also, faves are nice. Reviews are better. Just so y'all know.

Disclaimer- Dude, if I owned Transformers, that would be awesome. For starters I'd have a red Lamborghini of my own. Instead I have a twelve-year-old Taurus.

--

And then there were times when he was back to hating his job.

Simmons rested his elbows on his knees, fingers twisted around each other as he stared at the latticework bars that separated him from the bustle of the sheriff's office. At least it would if there was any bustle. Instead there were three men playing an idiot's variation of blackjack, one of them a gawky teenager, and a snoring booze-soaked lump stretched across the cot one cell over. Occasionally an older woman would wander in and chatter with one the men for a few minutes before disappearing again.

It was like a scene from the _Andy Griffith Show_, lacking only the canned music and well-meaning-but-stupid farm folk popping in.

His only ticket out of this 1960's-style hell had been long since revoked, his shiny S7 badge having gone walkabout not long after the Secretary of Defense dismissed the whole group. The only leftover Simmons had from his Pentagon days was a cafeteria ID card- not the most official thing ever. So he was stuck here, in Nowheresville CA, trying not to wince as he thought of how thoroughly screwed he was and exactly how long it would take someone to notice.

Sideswipe had it just as bad, having to pretend to be an unintelligent car sitting in an impound lot. Simmons hadn't had the time or inclination to explain what a Denver boot was and why the 'bot might not care for it before Dudley Dooright had slapped it on. That had certainly been interesting, with Simmons hollering nonsense in a very loud tone in order to cover Sideswipe's self-righteous shrieking. Finally the sheriff had decided that Simmons was on something and had dragged him inside in order to subject him to a wide range of drug tests. And Simmons' day, which had started rather ominously with a self-firing gun and mildly unstable thirty-foot-tall robots, hit an all-time low as he found himself trying to give a urine sample while a man who could easily be mistaken for a bull elephant stood there and _stared._

Oh yes, fun times abound.

So now the once-great Reggie Simmons was sitting there, hating his job with a previously unimaginable passion. He was also cursing Wheeljack and Ratchet- if Loony hadn't pissed off Psycho by nearly killing him and Psycho hadn't decided to chase Loony around various highways until they were both hopelessly lost, then Simmons wouldn't have been volunteered to go with the Great Red Menace and track down a certain missing engineer.

And Sideswipe. God help him, he thoroughly hated Sideswipe. If the idiot had ever bothered to stop and ask a few simple questions- like what those signs along the side of the road with the big '70' on them meant- then they wouldn't be here. But no, he couldn't do that. Instead he just decided to tool along the roads, harassing other drivers and racing his brother, at an average speed of oh-my-God miles per hour. Simmons was honestly surprised the Lamborghini's speedometer actually had anything below the triple digits- it wasn't as though Sideswipe ever dropped below 90.

Someone really ought to have explained speed limits to him, Simmons thought darkly. Or, at least, about speed traps. About how there were certain points along certain roads where a motion-activated camera was linked to a radar gun and if you blew past those cameras going _twice the speed limit_ it took a picture of your car- a red blur in Sideswipe's case- and sent the ticket to your house. No chasing or catching involved. Of course there should also have been someone sorting through the mail the Autobots got in their government-maintained PO box, someone who should have noticed a large amount of moving violations committed by a red 2009 Lamborghini Gallardo, license plate SIDSWPE.

Instead that someone had let those tickets pile up to the one time Sideswipe had an actual human driver, forcing him to a moderate eighty-five mph until some small-town sheriff nabbed him. And the worst part was that now Simmons had to not only pay the twenty-eight tickets but also got his license revoked and was left with his scrawny ass rotting in a piss-poor excuse for a holding cell until someone decided what to do with him.

All because of Wheeljack's god damn gun.

Simmons knitted his fingers together and braced his forehead against thumbs. He was getting a headache just imagining how Optimus Prime would react to this news.

"Um… hey?" A hesitant voice called out. Simmons glanced up and frowned. The nerdy teen was standing in front of his cell. Poor kid looked definitely nervous, Simmons mused, and he wondered briefly what they'd discovered about him in the seven torturous hours he'd been their guest. Then he wondered if Sideswipe had finally lost what little patience he had and transformed. That would be worth a few laughs. Instead the kid peered around before leaning forward. His eyes lit up as he talked, voice so soft Simmons barely heard him.

"Are you from the CIA?"

"Huh?" Simmons answered dully.

"The CIA? Or maybe the Secret Service?" The kid was getting excited now, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "The computer said you're high-level government but it didn't say which division and Betsy says you're prob'ly CIA but Dad think's you're Secret Service and--"

"Hey, hey, hey, kid," Simmons interrupted. Now this, he could work with. One secret government agent man coming up. "I can't tell you anything, okay? It's classified."

There was a certain tone of voice, a certain lilt in the word, that made 'classified' sound like anything the listener wanted it to be. His audience gaped even more, then grinned.

"I knew it, I knew it. You're CIA. This is _soooo_ awesome, all my friends are gonna freak--!"

"No!" Simmons barked sharply. The kid jumped and cowered, looking abjectly terrified but by this point Simmons had had enough of this whole game. He stood up, grateful for his generous height if not bulk, and leaned against the bars as menacingly as he could. "See, kid," he muttered softly, "my superior thinks I'm in Miami. His superior thinks I'm in London. One of them…" Here he gave a dramatic pause before announcing dramatically, "A traitor."

The kid actually gasped. Simmons didn't know whether to laugh or groan.

"My handler will take care of this little incident, but in order to flush out the double-crosser I need to be as discreet as possible." Simmons nodded and grinned darkly. The boy frowned at him.

"You're supposed to be discreet, but you're driving a Lamborghini?"

"Never mind that," the older man ordered. "I didn't want to say anything that might blow my cover earlier but I'm on a time crunch here. I need out."

The kid's frown grew even more puzzled. "But if you're trying to be discreet, then you shouldn't be doing anything to attract attention, so wouldn't our letting you go be a bad idea?"

Damn it, Simmons hated smart kids. This one in particular, with his nerdy mannerisms, reminded him of that smug little twerp Witwicky. He made a hurry-up gesture with both hands.

"Time crunch, kid. Gotta get moving here." When silence continued to prevail Simmons tried again. "Safety of the country at risk, son. I've got some real important CIA business on the other side…"

At the mention of the CIA the kid reverted to hero-worship mode. He nodded gravely and scurried off. Simmons grinned to himself.

Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

--

Ten minutes after two a.m. and Simmons was finally dragging himself into his apartment and collapsing onto his couch. It had taken all of his cunning and general government-secret-wouldn't-you-like-to-know persona but he was out of that miserable hellhole.

And Sideswipe, as added bonus points, was not. In fact he was parked next to a sleek Lancia Thesis- white with green and red markings. The Lancia, Simmons had also been informed, had been caught speeding about two hours before Sideswipe, but its driver had abandoned the car before they caught up with it.

As he had technically achieved his goal of finding Wheeljack, Simmons had no qualms about leaving the two Autobots to sit and sulk all night. SoD Keller would be apprised of their plight in the morning and the two mechs would just have to hold their Cybertronian equivalent to horses until the Secretary's orders filtered down the various pipelines.

The red 'bot had stopped chattering with Wheeljack long enough to bellow that clichéd statement _vengeance will be mine_ when Simmons had cheerfully informed them of this.

With an exhausted groan- manipulating idiots got harder when one actually had an honest job- Simmons hauled himself to his feet and staggered down the short hallway to his bedroom. He had almost made it when his front door was nearly rattled off its hinges as someone pounded on it.

Sixty seconds later Captain William Lennox stood in front of him, arms crossed and a fairly impressive scowl in place.

"And you left them there?" he repeated, as though Simmons' actions would change if they were spoken of often enough. Simmons shrugged and nodded. It had been clear from word one that the captain didn't much care for him. Actually none of the humans did, with the 'bots being not too far behind, but Lennox was the most obvious.

"Yup," the former agent answered calmly. Then he yawned largely, not bothering to hide it. Lennox ignored the oh-so-subtle hint.

"And did you call Secretary Keller?" he asked in a tone implying he was being generously patient.

"Nope." Now Simmons looked at his watch. Five twenty-five in DC. Keller might be awake, but it was doubtful.

"Or Optimus?" The patience was wearing thin now.

"Nope." Simmons repeated, voice mild. Tell Prime that not only was his missing engineer not being returned, but the warrior he'd sent out to do the returning wasn't coming back either? Not a chance in hell.

"Fine. Tell me where they are and I'll take care of it." Now Lennox was disgusted. And Simmons' apathy melted away into alarm as he abruptly realized something. The captain read his face easily and groaned. "You don't remember?"

"Why don't you just have one of the NBE's call them?" Simmons countered, purposefully using the acronym to upset the man. Lennox threw his hands into the air and turned away.

"Forget it, I'll handle it. Jesus." He stormed out, all shades of righteous fury.

Simmons watched the empty doorway for several long moments before pulling out his cell phone and dialing up his former boss.

"Hey Tom," he greeted unenthusiastically. "I was just wondering if you have some job you need me to be doing in… I don't know, Jamaica?" Silence. "Please?"

More silence. Then Tom, his only lifeline out of this psycho pit, burst out laughing before hanging up.

And thus ends one of the worst days of my life, Simmons mused. And the sad thing was that there were probably many more to come.

Joy.


	3. The Phone Wars

So I got home late one night/ early morning, and for reasons unknown I turned on the TV and saw my first-ever episode of Transformers Animated. This episode apparently starred Bumblebee, and I was torn between _holy mother of God what have they done to him?_ and _that's the cutest l'il Bumblebee I've ever seen!_ And then it shifted to _wow, Prowl looks really… different_. And now, God save me, I'm gonna watch the damn show because for whatever reason my freaky brain can concoct I actually think Prowl is kinda hot.

Help me.

And for those of you wondering about Simmons' reaction, just think: with his job he's already tipping towards paranoia. One little nudge and his train hops the tracks and lands in Schizoville.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the below, save the lady armed with the pepper spray.

--

Simmons groaned as he dropped backwards across the hotel bed. Tension had carved long lines of pain along his shoulders and neck, and it felt like someone was trying to bore a hole through his temples with a dentist's drill. He was not a young man, he reflected grimly, not by any means. And at times like this it felt as though he had skipped middle age and was heading straight to senility.

All this for a group of alien robots that hated his guts.

Granted, he had earned a little- a lot- of that hatred with his own actions. Leaving Sideswipe and Wheeljack in an impound lot for two days, for example, although to be honest there hadn't been a whole lot he could have done. Ultimately it had taken a not-so-subtle hint from the NSA before the sheriff's office had released the two 'bots.

Sideswipe's dark glaring had been disconcerting, but it quickly disappeared as both twins received a short and brutal lecture about the meaning of speed limits and what was going to happen to them if they broke one again, courtesy of Prowl. Then Ratchet, at a volume level that could be heard in Canada, calmly informed them that if they pulled one more stunt like that he was going to implant them with a device that zapped the 'slagging Pit' out of them if they went over 30 mph.

Simmons had the vague impression that Ratchet's threat carried a lot more weight with the twins than Prowl's.

Used as he was to being _persona non grata_, the next few days had fried Simmons' nerves, what with the two Lamborghinis whispering, pointing, and laughing in a manner most unfriendly every time they saw him. When Secretary of Defense Keller had called and asked if Simmons could be spared for a few days, he'd practically crawled through the phone line in his haste to get away. What Keller had forgotten to mention was that the reason for his trip was to attend a conference to which all the governmental bigwigs were invited. For three days now Simmons had been squished between two of the world's burliest Secret Service agents just so he could listen to everyone avoid the words _giant alien robots_, as if refusing to actually say it would change anything. Since two of the above robots were currently planning his utter humiliation, Simmons was less than amused by the process.

The former agent groaned as he pulled himself upright. Tomorrow morning, he told himself, I am going to walk into that room and say 'hey, heard the one about the aliens living in southern California? No? Oh, that's too bad, because IT'S THE GODDAMN TRUTH!' And if they don't like that they can go tell dear ol' Sunstreaker that since he doesn't actually exist, could he please vanish now?

Such an approach might not make him too many friends, but that was something he was well adjusted to. He had never been a man who needed others' encouragement. And to be frank, by this point he was about to say screw this and go back to California. Whatever the twins had planned most likely wasn't death by boredom and so was starting to look preferable.

Simmons padded into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. He leaned against the counter and simply tuned out, vacantly watching the mirror fog up. Some part of his brain was distantly aware that he was wasting water, but most of his attention focused on the problem at hand. The main hitch in the proceedings was a simple, rational fear of suddenly being debunked from the top of the food chain- a tenuous position already. Even before Hollywood vilified aliens people were terrified of beings with such great power.

And even though they were the good guys, when an outsider looked at the Autobots it would be far too easy to imagine the worst. There was Ironhide, who could resurface Mount Rushmore with two shots. Or Ratchet, the supposedly caring medic who had an alarming tendency to throw whatever was within reach at whoever happened to be annoying him. Or that lunatic Sideswipe and his sociopath brother, both of whom roamed the streets of Los Angeles at speeds that drag racers would balk at. And there was Prime himself, a three-story tall war machine complete with a sword that could gut a blue whale in one swing.

It didn't stop there, either. These giant robots didn't even have the decency to look like giant robots. Instead they could be just about any sort of vehicle imaginable, which only multiplied the fear factor. To be blunt Simmons easily understood why the men at the conference would rather remain ignorant- if the child didn't look under the bed the monster couldn't exist.

His cell phone started ringing.

Simmons pushed himself off the counter, resignedly noticing that his posture had left his hip slightly numb, and shut the water off. He half-limped over to the TV stand and managed to flip open his phone just before it went to voice-mail.

"Ag- Simmons here." Inside he cursed, as he always did when reminded of Sector Seven's disbandment. There was no verbal answer, but he did hear a scratchy noise, like a record turning over. Then the _Jaws_ theme started playing.

Simmons groaned and rested the heel of his hand against his left eye. "Sideswipe?" he demanded irritably. "Damn it, this isn't funny. Stop calling me or next time you get pulled over I'll make sure they do a full cavity search on you."

The music didn't falter but Simmons thought he heard a soft giggle in the background. He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto his bed before heading back towards the bathroom.

The phone rang again.

This time he looked at Caller ID, which listed a long string of zeros. He scowled at it and threw it aside, determined not to play that idiot's game. He made it to the bathroom doorway before nearly jumping out of his skin as his phone produced an ear-splitting version of the _Psycho_ theme. The small machine was also apparently set to vibrate, and it bounced its way over the edge of the nightstand with a sound like a thousand angry wasps. Simmons snatched it up before it hit the ground.

"What the hell do you want?" he snapped.

"_The calls are coming from inside the house_,"a harsh voice whispered. The human snorted at that- he recognized that line from a movie trailer. He highly doubted Sideswipe could fit his twenty-five-plus feet of height into the one-story motel. And there was the fact that the twins' collective maturity level rivaled that of a twelve-year-old's, so they were barely allowed to go off-base by themselves, never mind across the country.

"Sure they are," he retorted. "Stop calling me."

He hung up and, after a moment's hesitation, turned the phone off. A super-advanced machine like Sideswipe would have no problems turning it back on remotely, but at least if he did it would only confirm that it was one of the Autobots harassing him.

This time the phone stayed dead, like the good little un-sentient machine it was. Simmons walked back over to the bathroom, then stopped and peered at the phone. Nothing. He stepped onto the tile floor and swung the door closed, yanking it back open just before it clicked shut and sticking his head into the hallway.

The phone still did nothing.

He slammed the door and glared at it as he began to savagely pull at his tie. He _was not_ going to let that red monstrosity drive him paranoid.

Somewhere out in the hallway a door banged. Simmons bolted out of the bathroom and was in the main hall before his brain could properly register the noise, and he found himself standing in front of a young woman with two small children. Her wide eyes zeroed in on the gun not quite hidden under his suit jacket and her hand flew towards her pocket.

Long years of training had him yanking his arms up and turning his face away. The pepper spray caught his hands and the side of his jaw but thankfully missed his eyes. A cloud of the stuff puffed in front of his face and he inhaled it, reducing himself to hacking and coughing instead of the calming reassurance he'd been about to give the woman. He listened to her flip-flops clop their way down the hallway at a pace just shy of a gallop and groaned.

So now he had a woman probably running off to call the cops and scream rape or murder and an Autobot trying to reduce him to a twitching, gibbering lump. And he was now locked out of his room.

He'd had quite enough of this 'vacation', thank you.

--

Half an hour later Simmons wandered back into his room, mentally debating how long it would take before management kindly informed him that he needed to leave. The woman had already left, refusing to believe that he was government even though he actually had a badge- it had been returned to him for the duration of the conference.

His cell phone informed him he'd missed three calls. He idly wondered when it had turned back on.

Determinedly Simmons took his shower, only starting slightly when the _Psycho_ shrieking started again. He took his sweet time, letting the hot water pound the tension out of his back. The phone went off four more times with increasing frequency. The last time the ringtone changed to a siren wailing, and Simmons was half-out of the shower before hearing the tinny quality all cell phone ringers had. He smirked to himself at that.

For a being that could live millions of years, Sideswipe wasn't very patient.

He dressed in a S7 t-shirt and a pair of ratty old sweatpants. The phone rang almost continuously the entire time. Finally the human picked it up and flipped it open, almost lazy in his motions, and gave a questioning grunt.

His answer was a solid _click_.

Satisfied that Sideswipe was off his case for the night, Simmons tossed his phone aside and went to bed.

--

The morning seemed a good one, with the sun peeking between fluffy cotton-candy clouds and birds singing in cheerful salutations. Simmons straightened his tie and set his shoulders back, feeling younger than he had in years. The desk clerk watched him oddly, no doubt having heard about the night's entertainment, but Simmons refused to acknowledge her. He strode out the door, every inch the confident in-control man he had been before a certain Samuel James Witwicky strolled into his life and turned everything upside down.

He hefted his briefcase in one hand and whistled a soft tune as he fine-tuned his plan- they were going to actually discuss the Autobots today if he had to tie every one of those blithering idiots to their chairs. He was pulling his keys out of his pocket when he finally noticed that something was wrong.

There was an empty parking space in front of him.

Simmons glanced around and frowned. Powder-blue Corvette to the right- check. Red minivan to the left- check. Black Explorer in front- no check. He reached out with one hand, patting the empty space in case his car had somehow turned invisible. Nothing.

His car was gone.

Simmons pulled himself together, then gave a jerky nod. "Right," he said to nothing in particular. When he pulled out his cell phone to call for a ride, he saw he had a text message. Almost afraid of what it might say, he opened it.

'NEXT TIME YOU'LL ANSWER THE PHONE, WON'T YOU?'

"Right," Simmons muttered again, dialing the number for a taxi. Briefly he wondered how Tweedledumb and Dumber had managed that from California. Not that it mattered much, really. Sideswipe had clearly won this round, but he was about to find out how aggravating Simmons could be.

This meant war.


	4. Speed Demons

Ya'll can thank Goldendreams257 for this piece of blatant insanity. This was actually my idea but it would have gone nowhere if not for her (her?) encouragement.

And this will probably slow down a little (lot) as my poor laptop goes in tomorrow for repairs _again, _but at least it's nice and long. Mainly this is due to the fact that Ratchet insisted on telling stories.

And if you wanna make a Flame happy, go read and review her other story Clementia. Iz Jazzy-centric, and -gasp!- it has an actual plot. Not like the mess below.

Disclaimer: Me no own.

--

"You did _what_?!"

Ratchet peered down at him, his expression a cross between bemusement and his natural state of extreme irritation. Briefly Simmons spared a querying thought as to when exactly he had learned to read the facial expressions of a race so different from his own. Then he put that aside as Ratchet answered his question.

"I installed the devices. I told them I would," he added sourly as Simmons gaped at him. "I believe they're called 'shock collars'."

"Yeah… for barking dogs! Not for speeding robots!" The human turned away, burying his face in his hands as he gave a hysterical little half-laugh. Ratchet had indeed threatened the twins with this idea, but Simmons had been under the impression that an idea was all it was and how it would remain.

"It was Prowl's idea," the medic continued evenly. He held up a collar similar to the ones both twins were now wearing. "He and Prime seemed a little… upset after your call. Wheeljack and I were asked to start working on it immediately after that."

While he'd been in DC Simmons had called Prime every night, updating him as to the progress in the conference- or lack thereof. The night after his car disappeared he'd explained the scenario to Prime as realistically as possible. After all, he'd been a victim of harassment that time, having done nothing to deserve such treatment.

That was his story and he was sticking to it.

"So it never occurred to any of you that this might, I dunno, annoy them a little?"

Ratchet barked out a laugh at that. "I hope it annoys them a little. I hope it annoys them a lot. The more it annoys them the less I see of them." This made no sense, but Ratchet had a couple million years' worth of experience, so Simmons took his word on it. "Besides, if they decide they want revenge on someone it'll be Prowl."

There was an evilly amused tone to his voice and for a moment Simmons humored the image of Crazy Scientist Ratchet complete with Igor-style Wheeljack. Then he returned to Earth and gave a 'huh?'

"The last time they pulled a prank on me I welded their sorry skid plates to each other and left them that way." The evil scientist grin was most definitely showing now. "And last time they tried something with Prime he took them down to the training bay and challenged them to a two-on-one free-for-all."

Somehow Simmons knew how this story was going to end. Mild-mannered as Prime normally was, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he could turn any one of his soldiers inside out with no difficulty whatsoever. For his own part the agent clearly remembered sitting in a car that was lifted ten, fifteen feet into the air before dropping, and looking up to see no roof and one very unhappy robot staring back down at him.

Ever since then Simmons had made a point of not angering the big guy. Irritate sure, annoy and exasperate- but not anger. If he never saw Optimus Prime angry again it would be far too soon.

Still, he had to ask. "And how did that work out for them?"

"Suffice to say they haven't tried anything like that again," Ratchet answered. "And they stayed out of trouble for about…" here he paused, no doubt translating Cybertronian time units into Earthen. "Six weeks, give or take."

"Really? Why's that?"

"Kind of hard to get into trouble if you're offline in the med bay and missing a few limbs." He saw the look on Simmons' face and snorted. "No, Prime didn't want to go that far, but those two are idiots. Thought they could handle him and were too proud to give up once it became obvious they couldn't."

"And how did Prime fare in this?" This story was amusing Simmons greatly for some reason. Maybe it was imaging the overly-arrogant Sunstreaker being handed his aft on a silver platter.

"Mostly cosmetic damage. Couple of decent hits here and there. He let Sideswipe get in a good hit with one of his pile drivers."

"_Let_ him? That's an insult." Simmons grinned

"Not to mention stupid. Do you have any idea how much force Sideswipe can put behind one of those?" Ratchet was back to grumpy now, and as he turned his attention to the shock collar Simmons heard him mutter several unkind things about suicidal warriors. The human frowned at that; he'd always had a hard time picturing Prime as a true warrior. A politician forced into the role due to necessity, sure, but not a dyed-in-the-wool-lives-for-the-fight warrior like Sideswipe.

"What about Prowl?" Simmons interrupted his recital. He received the Autobot version of the evil eye in return. "Does he just not care if the twins pull something on him?"

"Oh, he cares. In fact, he's their favorite victim. Unfortunately Prowl has neither the physical resources to pound some sense into them nor the temper to scare it into them. The best he can do is assign a punishment so boring their CPUs rust."

"And does this work?" The human was curious now. Prowl had all the personality of a turnip, with zero sense of humor and no temper to speak of. At least, that was the impression he gave, and Simmons had a feeling the tactician had worked very hard to perfect this image.

"Not as well as Prowl would want it to. The problem with the warrior types like the twins is that they don't learn anything unless the lesson includes pain." The medic finished his last word with an irritated grunt. He held the shock collar up and squinted at it. Sensing story time was over, Simmons quietly made his way to the door.

Jazz was waiting in the hallway beyond, arms folded over his chest and classic Cheshire grin firmly in place.

"So I hear th' twins have been givin' ya a hard time," he said without preamble. Simmons blinked at him.

"Uhh… yeah?" At his hesitant confirmation the grin only broadened. The 'bot transformed and swung his driver's door open.

"Then you're gonna want to see this."

--

They were speeding down a country road, going about eighty- Jazz had explained that mechs could produce an electrical current that prevented radar guns from reading their real speed, which no one had bothered telling the twins because it was 'more fun that way'- when Simmons saw what the _this_ in question was. It was hard not to.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Simmons muttered.

On the road in front of them was a small parade of three cars- two Lamborghinis and one Camaro. The Camaro was in front, all windows rolled down and stereo blasting so loud Simmons could feel the bass. Behind it the two Lamborghinis drove side-by-side at a hair below their new limit of thirty miles per hour, their sullen resentment all but tangible.

Jazz slid in seamlessly behind Sunstreaker and began to honk his horn.

"This doesn't seem like the smartest plan," Simmons informed the 'bot when he managed to stop laughing.

"Technically it's not, but what're they gonna do? They can't transform outside th' base unless there's a 'con attacking 'em, and it's not like Bee and I can't outrun 'em. An' if Sunny tries to slam on his brakes th' crash'll scratch his precious paintjob."

The twins seemed to realize their lack of options as well and drove along in silence, mostly managing to ignore their harassers. Sunstreaker did lunge at Bumblebee once, when the scout managed to find a particularly annoying song to play. Simmons watched as the golden car's entire frame twitched, like a horse trying to shed itself of flies, and his engine momentarily sputtered. He dropped back so fast Jazz had to swerve wildly to avoid hitting him.

"Damn, Ratch," the saboteur said to the absent medic. "That's kinda strong, isn't it?"

"What happened?" Simmons leaned forward and studied the yellow twin. Sunstreaker was back to his visible pout next to his twin.

"Th' shock knocked him offline for a second there," Jazz murmured. Then he verbally shrugged it off and crept a little closer to the twins' bumpers.

This game continued for almost ten minutes before Simmons suddenly noticed a dark shape looming up in the rear-view mirror. Jazz must have noticed it as well, for he sped up and swerved in front of the twins, steadying himself next to Bumblebee. After a few more minutes the shape solidified into a familiar-looking black truck.

"Ironhide," Jazz explained simply, probably noticing Simmons' confusion. The human had only seen Ironhide a scant handful of times before, and for most of them he was in robot mode. The weapons specialist had teamed up with Captain Lennox, who made a hobby of avoiding the former agent. Thus Simmons knew even less about Ironhide than he did about Prowl.

"What is going on here?" the newcomer asked thunderously. Jazz's answer was nearly drowned out by Sideswipe's shrieking declaration of eternal loyalty if the black 'bot would only make the other two _go away_.

"Ratchet installed that speed device he was threatenin' them with an' Prowl kicked 'em out on patrol," the saboteur announced cheerfully. There was a brief silence wherein Ironhide considered the situation. Then he slowed down and took up Jazz's abandoned place just beyond the twins' spoilers. And while he may not be a semi, he towered over all the cars around him, especially with his front grill almost touching the Lamborghinis' rear bumpers.

This new provocation turned out to be too much for Sunstreaker. With an inarticulate roar of rage he transformed, a brilliant explosion of flashing and fast-moving machinery.

"Yup, time to go," Jazz chirped. He gunned his engine and both he and Bumblebee shot off down the road, easily outstripping anything the twins could manage. Simmons twisted around to watch the fight-in-the-making. The last thing he saw was Sideswipe swinging onto the side of the road as Sunstreaker tackled a now-transformed Ironhide.

"Will he be alright?"

"Who, 'Hide? Ha, don't insult him. He'll slap those two sparklings down with no problems, then rub their faces in th' dirt to make sure they don't try that again."

And with that they continued on, eventually turning to head back to base.

--

He was not going to laugh. He _was not_ going to laugh. Jazz had tried to make him feel better by annoying the twins so really, this was all his fault. The least he could do was not make fun of them for it.

Jazz's prediction of how the fight would go proved correct. Half an hour after he and Simmons had returned to the base Ironhide had showed up, bringing with him two very dented and muddy Lamborghinis. Ratchet had done a few scans and pronounced nothing seriously wrong with them, leaving the twins to stew in all their filthy glory. Sunstreaker had verged on an apoplectic fit when Prowl told him he wasn't going to a car wash until after he'd been lectured, at which point all the washes would be closed.

And the lecture had been a grand one, with Prowl obviously barely holding onto his patience and Prime sitting in the corner looking as though he couldn't decide whether this was funny or pathetic. The twins and Ironhide received a litany on how they were not supposed to transform unless they had absolutely no choice. Then Jazz, Bumblebee, and Ironhide were informed that when the twins were punished it wasn't meant to be interpreted as open season. And as a closing note Prime added that he was very disappointed that two senior officers had decided to act in such an immature fashion.

At this point there were two options: a.) nod and agree and pretend to be contrite or b.) open your big mouth and ask if that was all Prime was gonna do.

Jazz, in perhaps one of his least intelligent and thought-out moments ever, went for option b.

So now Simmons stood in front of the saboteur, with Bumblebee off to one side looking positively furious, and he really was trying not to laugh. They had to give him points for difficulty. The look on Jazz's face as he tugged at the shock collar he now sported was simply priceless. Bumblebee wasn't too happy about his new accessory either, and the only reason Ironhide had escaped that fate was because Ratchet had run out of the collars.

"So…" Simmons began, since there was no way he could let this go without at least some comment. "I suppose I shouldn't be asking for a ride home, then?"

And then he had to laugh as Bumblebee gave a very human response to such a question, displaying a mobility in his fingers that Simmons hadn't realized he was capable of.

After this, the trip to DC that had accomplished absolutely nothing was almost worth it.


	5. Eight Simple Questions

Hey, lookie here, I updated this! But seriously, I think is falling down on the job here. I'm just now getting e-mail alerts from three days ago, and after an angry e-mail I figured out it's not MSN's fault. Just so y'all know, any slowness on my part isn't my fault.

Yes, I wrote Mirage. He's a fun one, even though he might be a little ooc. Just remember, he's new to this planet and he's got a little fleshling asking him eighty questions.

And this chapter isn't quite as funny as I wanted it to be, but it sets up for the next one, which is going to be titled something like 'Simmons vs. Jet Judo'. Because I can.

Disclaimer: Me now own.

--

He wasn't getting paid enough for this.

In fact, he wasn't getting paid at all, which certainly explained a few things. The government quite handily made all his bills disappear and gave him a monthly food allowance, leaving Simmons with the feeling that he had regressed to a teenager's level of independence. Save a few- okay, a lot of- grey hairs and high school being replaced by small mountains of paperwork, bullies traded out for government goons and thirty-foot-tall robots out for revenge… all right, so being a teenager again was sounding pretty nice. He would kill for his only responsibility to be getting the car home before ten, especially if it were the kind of car that couldn't talk back.

But no, he had a job now, a job that was angling to deposit him on the doorstep of the loony bin. And he seriously wasn't getting paid enough to do this.

"So your name is… what, again?" He tapped his pen impatiently against his clipboard and glanced up at the newcomer. He hadn't thought it possible, but there was a 'bot who was even less friendly than Sunstreaker. And he didn't like answering questions, Simmons had discovered, turning this ten-minute Q&A into almost two hours of torture. In fact, as long as he'd been sitting here he'd gotten absolutely nothing but a massive run-around from a mech who had an impressive way of stringing words together.

"Mirage."

"Oh goody, a straight answer," Simmons muttered to himself. He wrote the answer on the paper- he'd tried a laptop, once upon a time, but it turned out Jazz was considered a good hacker for a reason. He'd only needed to turn in a report signed 'Agent Scully' once to change his habits.

"I have been giving you straight answers-" the 'bot began stiffly, but Simmons interrupted him.

"And your status is…?" He glanced up and saw Mirage had folded his arms over his chest. The white-and-blue mech looked about as happy as a kid being asked to eat a gallon of strained peas.

"Status," the mech echoed blankly. Simmons gestured broadly, waving his pen around in circles.

"Job. Position. What you do for the Autobot army."

"I am a part of the counter-intelligence division designated to the gathering of information on the status and potential threat factor of our enemies."

Simmons gazed at the paper in front of him. The line in which he was supposed to write that answer had enough room for him to put _I hate my job_ if he crammed it in.

"Okay, let's try it this way. Jazz is a saboteur. Prowl is a tactician. The twins are soldiers. You are…" Simmons looked up, saw a when-hell-freezes-over look, and sighed. "Not gonna answer that."

"I believe I already answered your question."

"Oh yeah," the human agreed darkly. "My boss is gonna absolutely love that: 'answer to question two: see page four'."

"I have little concern for your boss' affairs."

"Not that kind of love." Simmons was tapping the pen again, and Mirage watched it closely. The human had long since figured out that the noise annoyed the mech and had made full use of it. "This is getting nowhere fast. Why can't you lay off the attitude for eight questions?"

"I have."

"Yeah, you told me your name 'cause you were tired of being called NBE-16. Good for you. You heard Prime- you aren't going anywhere until I get this filled out. So until you answer all these questions, in as few words as possible, we're just gonna sit here and wait." Mirage didn't move. Simmons stared at him for a moment before the flaw in his logic became obvious. "Says the middle-aged organic to the x-million-year-old robot. Great."

"Why don't we move on to question three?" Mirage almost sounded patronizing. The human grunted and shifted his attention to the next question. He wasn't liking Mirage all that much, and not just because of how difficult he was making this. The mech had an air of regality about him, as though he were a level above everyone around him.

"All right, question three. I need info on your car form. Make, model, color, license plate, VIN number… what?"

The mech lifted his chin slightly, the sense of regality rapidly changing to haughtiness. "I have not scanned in or taken on an Earth-specific alternate mode."

Simmons shoved the clipboard to one side and hit his forehead against the table. The pain was a suitable distraction, so he did it a few more times.

"Why not?" he barked when he was done with that. Mirage was leaning away slightly, alarmed by this new behavior.

"To discard an alternate form and return to protoform requires a good deal of energy," the mech stated. "I had not the energy to spare prior to my landing on Earth."

"And since then?" Simmons eyed the elegant 'bot. He should have noticed, he thought- there were no tires, no headlights, none of the various automobile bits so obvious on the others.

"Since then I have been here," came the disdainful response. "Answering your questions."

The accusation was obvious, and the human barked out a laugh as he jabbed the pen at the 'bot.

"Oh no, you're _not_ blaming me. This would have taken ten minutes if you'd bothered to answer any one of these questions with less than fifty words. Or more than just a go-screw-yourself glare."

"Jazz has offered me a list of acceptable forms," Mirage put in. "I have found one that fits both the technical specs and my own personal preferences. I believe it is called a Bentley Continental GT."

"Wow." Simmons rested his chin on his palm and gazed at the paper. "Another overpriced luxury car. Why am I not surprised?" He wrote 'Bentley Cont. GT?' and moved on to the next question.

"From the data I have gathered, the possessing of such a vehicle is more a symbol of status than for any practical use."

"Yeah, because Lamborghinis and monster pickups are an everyday part of all humans' lives. The Bentley is just superfluous." He drew upon his memory for the next question. "You said you were in Intelligence, right?"

"Yes."

"Which makes Jazz your boss," Simmons muttered as he wrote the answer. He paused to cast a sincerely apologetic look towards the mech. "I'm sorry about that."

Mirage ignored that, probably not knowing how to answer without something being taken the wrong way. Instead he leaned forward. "What is the question asking?"

"What division you work in," Simmons answered distractedly. Something was bugging him, something that should have been obvious but somehow wasn't.

"Why?"

"Because we need to know what to expect from- you're a spy!" Simmons leapt to his feet and turned on the 'bot with a triumphant laugh. Mirage, on the other hand, had a reaction similar to that of a mother's when her baby's first words sounded as though they had come straight from a sailor.

"I am not," he snapped, showing the first true emotion the human had seen from him. "I happen to be a loyal Autobot and I will not explain myself to you."

"Spy…" Simmons drew out the word as he wrote it in under question two. He grinned in self-satisfaction and turned back to the deeply insulted 'bot. "Okay, question five. Do you have any special adaptations, like Ironhide's cannons or Prowl's fancy battle computer or…?" He stopped as he looked up. The outline of a blue box surrounded the Autobot for a moment before fading away, taking Mirage with it. Simmons stared at the empty space where the spy had been and almost didn't feel the slight thumping as the mech walked out.

"Invisibility," he said as he wrote it out. "Must come in handy as a SPY!" The last word was yelled loudly, but received no response. Satisfied that Mirage was gone, Simmons turned his attention to the last question. This one wasn't meant to be asked out loud, but rather answered by his own interpretation.

"Question eight; basic personality. Easily insulted, apparently non-confrontational. To get rid of him, call him a spy." The human grinned and nodded to himself as he finished. The other questions would have to wait until later, but that was all right. He had another, probably very bored, 'bot waiting for him. As he flipped to a new paper he yelled for the other one to come in. The 'bot who came in struck him as being nervous, like a kid in the doctor's office.

"Sit down and tell me your name." He pointed the pen tip to the Autobot-sized chair Mirage had so frequently vacated. The new 'bot sat down hesitantly.

"I'm Bluestreak," he said. Simmons nodded.

"See how easy this can be if someone cooperates?" he asked the absent spy. Before he could continue, though, Bluestreak did.

"At least, that's what most others call me. I don't think it's not actually my name, but it's what they call me. Ratchet kinda gave them the idea for it, I think. But anyways, most people call me just Blue, cause everyone has a nickname. Well, I suppose Jazz doesn't, cause his name is so short already, and Sunstreaker doesn't like any nicknames we try to give him and he's so mean he always gets his way. Unless it's Sideswipe, Sunstreaker isn't as mean to him and he actually lets him call him Sunny and- hey, where are you going?"

--

"Oh look, it's Captain Lennox!"

Will turned, his conversation with Sam interrupted by Simmons' uncharacteristic joy at seeing him. Before he could think of a reply the older man shoved a clipboard at him.

"Congratulations on your promotion, you're now doing my job. Warning: the pay sucks and the giant alien robots are actually sanity-sucking vampires. Don't leave any questions blank, which means you get to track down the invisible pissy spy and talk to Motormouth Wonderboy over there. Try not to piss the white one off, he's a little temperamental. And watch out for the twins; harassing the humans is a part of their job requirement. Bye now!"

And he was gone, heading towards his car at a speed that would make a cheetah proud. Will stared after him, trying to figure out what had just happened.

"Did he just quit?" Sam asked, apparently as confused as Will felt. The teen peered at the clipboard Will now held and frowned. "'I hate my life'?"

Will looked at the clipboard and saw a paper with those words scrawled bold across it. Underneath it was the much smaller words 'someone just kill me now'.

"Wow." Both humans looked up to see Sideswipe standing behind them, hands on his hips. "I've been trying for almost a month to get rid of him, and Mirage and Bluestreak manage it in two hours?" He turned to a smaller grey mech that had followed Simmons out. "Teach me this, O Wise One."

"He's not actually gone, is he?" Will asked. "I have no idea how to do his job. I have no idea what his job even _is_."

"Annoying people? Being a pain in the ass? Causing problems?" Sam put in helpfully.

"Hey, I do all that. We don't need him!" Sideswipe chirped. Will groaned.

"Yes, we do. Go get him. And be nice!" Sideswipe gave him a disbelieving look.

"I can do one or the other, but not both," the red twin drawled. "Or do you not remember the whole shock collar thing?"

"I remember that was all Ratchet's fault," Sam pointed out. Apparently Sideswipe didn't like this reminder. Then again, Sam probably didn't either, as Bumblebee's enforced speed limit had the boy walking to school for a week and a half. Not because the speed was necessary so much as the scout refused to go anywhere while he had the collar on.

"Hey," Will said to the silent mech- Bluestreak, if he remembered correctly. "Do you think you can catch up to him?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Good." Will cut him off, having been informed how Bluestreak had earned his name. "Transform and let's go." Three seconds later he was staring at a… something. Like a cross between a hover vehicle and an ATV. "What is this?"

"I haven't had time to get an Earth form yet," Bluestreak said apologetically. Sam began to laugh. Sideswipe was already far ahead of him and had to lean against the side of the building to keep from falling over.

"Yeah, that's great," Will muttered. He turned and headed into the base, yelling for Jazz as he went.

Suddenly he had a good deal of sympathy for Reginald Simmons.


	6. Then and Now

This did not want to be written. I managed it but damn, the delete button earned its keep this time around. And it's extremely hard to be funny or interesting when it's just two characters talking; actually, one all but begging and one repeatedly saying no. Not to mention my best friend has once again chosen her newest obsession- a teeny-bopper band and a text-message war with a teenager- over me. This is nothing new, so don't bother with the sympathy; I'm the idiot who keeps the friendship more or less intact while she does nothing to deserve it.

I'm actually kind of proud on how Simmons' little speech turned out. He's probably one of the least appreciated characters, and I felt this was a long time in the coming.

I regret to tell y'all that I made a mistake in last chapter's author notes: I claimed last chapter wasn't as funny as normal. I have been corrected. Repeatedly. By many people. A different friend than above who reads these chapters before I post them, and therefore before I put in these forewords, gave me a lecture on why I shouldn't underestimate myself.

As a side note I have put in some info on myself in my bio as per request. It's not like I put up my bank account or anything, just random tidbits like why I say y'all. Fun stuff.

Disclaimer: I own… a very sturdy apartment door? In other words, nothing.

--

"No."

"Come on, you can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm very serious. No."

"Can you at least open the door?"

Simmons turned up the volume on the TV, pointedly ignoring the younger man standing just outside his apartment. This had been going on for a little over an hour now- earlier the door had proven its worth by refusing to break down despite Lennox's battering. The former agent was silently relieved that his apartment was on the sixth floor, preventing some lunatic like Sideswipe from getting any funny ideas about reaching through his windows.

"You can't just quit like that," Lennox tried. Simmons barked out a laugh, loud enough that his unwanted visitor heard him.

"Yeah, because no one saw this coming," the older man muttered. "Not like I was arrested for speeding tickets I didn't get, or got harassed by my own cell phone, or had my car disappear."

"What?"

Simmons groaned and heaved himself to his feet. He turned the TV off and wandered over to the door, opening it as far as the chain would allow.

"I don't know why you think I'm the only one qualified for this job," he said to an annoyed-looking Lennox.

"Maybe because you're the only one who knows what this job entails," the captain pointed out.

"Interacting with living things, which I obviously fail at," Simmons countered. "I like my giant robots unconscious and unable to talk back, thank you."

"They're living beings, not a porterhouse steak! You can't order them to fit your specifications, you just have to deal with them how they are." Lennox massaged his temples, looking very tired.

"And I don't _deal_, so the answer isn't changing. No." And with that the door was slammed shut again. A half second later there was a very audible _thump_, as if the person on the outside had slammed a fist against the surprisingly effective barrier. Simmons decided he could afford to feel sorry for the younger man for a few moments and actually explained himself. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly the best at dealing with people."

"No, really?" Ladies and gentlemen, may we present the winner of the Most Sarcastic Sentence Of the Week award.

"Big shock, I know," he said dryly. "But the point is, I trained my entire life to think of these robots as bad things, as interesting freak shows that escaped the galactic science fair and should under no circumstances be allowed to run around free. Up until I met you my experience with these things was limited to NBE-1 in a deep freeze. We didn't even know his name- hell, we didn't even think to ask if he _had_ a name."

"Given the circumstances, I'm glad you didn't ask him," Lennox snorted. Simmons rolled his eyes but didn't ask the man how stupid he thought they were- he didn't think he'd care for the answer.

"So I can't get a handle on why you think this is a job only I can do. I can sum it up in one sentence- if it seems like it'll annoy the 'bots, it's my job to do it. There, you're prepped. Go away."

"You are the official Autobot liaison in the government," Lennox said in a tone one normally reserved for explaining complex things to young children and house pets. "You may not handle the Autobot part particularly well but you've got the government thing down pat. I'm army; I don't know anything about how the government works. And I'm getting tired of talking to this damn door."

"How the government works: keep your ass covered and your head down and say 'yes sir' a lot. And if you're getting tired of the door, I've got an answer. _Go away_."

There was a frustrated growling noise from the soldier as Simmons walked back over to his couch. To be perfectly honest he was slowly giving in; as much as he annoyed and was annoyed by the various 'bots, he was also coming to a sort of understanding with them. Ever since the shock-collar thing Jazz and Ironhide had treated him different. A subtle thing, to be sure, but Ironhide no longer continuously cleaned his cannons whenever Simmons walked into a room. And Jazz, who had always been distantly friendly, was much more relaxed around him, even taking his side in the occasional argument. Even the twins were starting to show him a grudging respect. Prowl was as hard to read as ever and Ratchet was still a crabby bastard, and he doubted Bumblebee would ever truly forgive him for how Sector 7 had treated him, but progress was still progress.

"So that's it? You're going to let a bunch of science fair freak shows beat you?" Lennox was getting desperate now, not that he'd ever not been desperate. However, he'd found a good approach this time. Simmons froze.

"What was that?" he snapped. The soldier laughed darkly.

"I always thought you were the kind who didn't back down from any fight. Even when I had a gun pointing at you, the only reason you gave in was because you were ordered to. But now, a couple of idiot robot kids have got you running for your mommy."

Ooh, that was low. Simmons ground his teeth together and glared at the door. His ego had always been a generous target, but no one had ever managed to score as direct a hit as this. Then again, he'd never given anyone an opportunity like this before.

"I did not run away. I quit. After the hassling I've gotten I've earned a chance to relax."

"Oh, please," and Lennox laughed again. "You, relax? Do you even know how? And how is quitting different from running away?"

"Because I didn't- oh, screw this." He unlocked the door and yanked it open quickly. Lennox smirked at him- and how a man several inches shorter than himself looked down on him, the former agent would never know- and strolled in. "I want you to know right now that I have never, in my life, run away from a fight. And I didn't run away this time. I quit."

"Mind telling me what the difference is?" The younger man was looking around, no doubt taking note of the fact that the apartment still looked new. Simmons had been living there for seven months.

"The difference is I was tired of being everyone's whipping boy," Simmons snapped angrily. "I was doing my job before you were even born. I have worked my entire life to keep this alien invasion under wraps. Everything I have done was for the good of everyone else, and if that meant I had to suffer, that was just too bad. My job always was keeping people safe, letting them live their lives without fear of a race that could wipe us out without trying. I lived as a shadow, a person who didn't exist, a man hated by everyone he met because someone had to and I was _damn good at it._ I have been disliked and mistrusted and treated like crap my. Entire. Life. And do you know why? So your wife and your cute little girl didn't wake up every morning wondering if today was the day the world was going to end."

"It was a crappy job and a horrible life, but you know what? Someone had to do it and I was tough enough to handle it. I could live with being hated by everyone because I knew it was better than the alternative. And now what?" He gave an odd little half-laugh and turned away, throwing his arms into the air. "Now I'm a joke. A teenager gets more respect than me. My own boss doesn't care about me anymore. I have to deal with a group of idiots who think I'm there to annoy. And the worst part? I'm not even useful anymore. In my old job I could tolerate it because I was did something for the greater good. Because I helped people, whether they knew it or not. But now I'm just nothing. _That_ is why I quit."

Lennox blinked at him, surprised by his vehemence. So was Simmons. He shook his head and turned away, dropping onto the couch and turning the TV back on.

"So… you think we don't respect you," the soldier said slowly. The older man snorted.

"I'm saying it's hard to go from someone vital to world security to a bureaucratic paper-pusher. I'm not cut out for a desk job. And if a single one of you actually respects me I'll swallow my cell phone."

"You know, there's more to your new job than just papers," Lennox replied. "You handle things no one else can. The Autobots rely on you to play middleman so they don't get shafted by the government. You still protect people, you just do it in a different way than before."

"No comment on the respect thing," Simmons muttered. Still, he had to admit the captain was right. He smiled slightly as he thought of the conference in DC. Nothing had ever come of that; no one had had the courage to actually say what they were there for. Protecting people, indeed.

Lennox's cell phone rang and he walked out into the hallway to answer it, careful to keep a foot in the doorway. After a moment he stuck his head back in.

"Besides, there's something only you can do now," he offered. Simmons shot him a questioning glance. "Seems Sideswipe talked some mid-level official at the Air Force base into letting them borrow an F-16. The twins are off doing something called 'jet judo' on it."

"Jet judo." Simmons echoed. The soldier shook his head helplessly. "And why am I being called in to yell at them?"

"Apparently they pulled a fast one on Prime. He agreed to what they termed as anti-seeker training methods without asking what that meant."

"So because the Autobots can't protest, it's now my job?"

"That was Ratchet," Lennox explained as he gestured with his cell phone. "He asked for you to, and I quote, 'get his sorry ass down here and stop these idiots before they smear themselves on the ground'."

"Oh, wonderful," Simmons drawled as he stood. Government-Autobot liaison, hah. More like the guy who did everything no one else wanted to do. This was something he was used to.

"Jet judo." He said it once more, to be sure he heard correctly, and was rewarded with a curious shrug. It sounded unfriendly and stupid and utterly suicidal- in short, exactly what he would expect from the wonder idiots. And he now had to talk them out of it.

God, he hated his job. He wouldn't give it up for the world- how many other people got to say they took a fighter jet away from a pair of giant robot twins? Like a baby and an abused toy, he mused. But yes, he hated his job. Hated it thoroughly.

Which was probably why he was so damn good at it.


	7. Jet Judo

So this took a long time to get moving. Ironically I wrote it all in about three hours, which is actually fairly normal for me. Once I start writing I can't stop, not for anything. It's the getting started that's difficult for me.

I would like to apologize, as there isn't much jet judo in this. But it just isn't as fun when the jet isn't fighting back, so I got tired of it pretty quickly. This is also a chapter where I believe the humor is more subtle, relying more upon the acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

It is four thirty in the morning and I am tired. Good night to all.

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

The silver Pontiac Solstice eased around the last bend in the road before hitting a flat stretch of desert. They were close to one hundred and fifty miles away from anything resembling human civilization, which was the only reason these idiots weren't racketing the terrorist alert up to neon red. Simmons curled one hand around the door handle and scowled as a slightly battered-looking F-16 jet roared overhead.

"How are they even controlling it?" Captain Lennox peered through the sunroof as the jet swung around in a broad arch. Below it, shimmering with heat waves emanating from the packed dirt, a low-slung red sports car managed to keep fairly good pace with the plane.

"Look at Blue," Jazz answered, sounding thoroughly amused by the whole scenario. Simmons, a good deal less entertained, followed his suggestion. T he newcomer was standing next to a bored-looking Sunstreaker. Judging from the hunch of his shoulders, the fixed gaze, and the hand motions, he'd either suffered the 'bot version of a nervous breakdown or those morons had somehow rigged the jet to a remote control.

Like a little kid with a radio plane, the human realized darkly. And except for the 'little' part, these three certainly qualified as kids.

"You're a hacker," he said to Jazz, who made an odd humming noise in response. "Can't you, I don't know, intercept the link or something?"

"Only if you want th' jet to crash," the saboteur countered. "I can hack th' beam they're usin', sure, but I won't be able t' read th' signal an' adjust th' dataflow 'fore the jet hits."

Okay, that officially made no sense. The jet crashing part, though, that was crystal clear. And as much as Simmons felt that Air Force desk jockey was a complete idiot for letting someone _borrow _an F-16, he didn't want to return a pile of twisted metal to the base. It was a matter of pride.

"All right," he muttered. "As soon as that jet lands, or gets close enough that it won't be permanently damaged, take over. We're going to have- what is he doing?"

Either by accident or design the jet had drifted close enough for Sideswipe to launch himself out of car mode and wrap himself around the nosecone, clinging like a lizard as the jet went skywards. The saboteur's sunroof wasn't wide enough to see everything so Simmons pushed the door open and stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched.

The point of this whole maneuver seemed to be rather like bull riding at a rodeo. The jet jerked and swung around and generally behaved like a hooked trout and Sideswipe held on, shifting himself so he was pressed flat across the jet's broad back. Simmons had to admit, the 'bot knew what he was doing- he kept himself well-balanced, easily riding out the worst of the movements. He even let go with one hand, waving to the group below.

"Jet judo," Jazz announced, still sounding as though he were having the time of his life. It took Simmons a few moments to realize the 'bot was answering his earlier question.

"Joy," the man snapped sourly. This was just what he needed- for this damn idiot stunt to actually work. Not that he wanted Sideswipe reduced to a crater on the desert floor, but that might hammer the point home. Nothing else would, knowing the boneheaded nature of the twins.

Then the jet gave a slight wobble. Simmons frowned but before he could say anything the jet pitched forward, dropping a couple dozen feet before jerking around. The human glanced at Bluestreak to see what the gunner was doing and saw a disaster in the making.

Sunstreaker had apparently declared himself bored and had tried to take over the flying. Unfortunately he'd forgotten to inform Bluestreak of this, trying instead to simply snatch the control out of the smaller 'bot's grip. This resulted in immediate confusion, but only for a moment. Then there came the ominous _crack_ of plastic and a small fireworks display lit up in Bluestreak's hands. He dropped what was left of the remote and Simmons yanked his head around to see the jet's engines cutting off as it went into an uncontrolled dive.

"Oh hell," he muttered. Lennox was more proactive.

"Jazz-" he began.

"I'm on it," the saboteur answered, all business now. For a panicky moment it looked as though they'd be bringing Sideswipe back to base in a shoebox, but then the jet's engines roared to life. It swung around and leveled out, slowly descending. Simmons was annoyed, but not particularly surprised, to hear Sideswipe laughing.

"Lucky they only broke th' casing," Jazz put in, once again his cheerful self. "Th' connection was still up. Otherwise it'd've taken too long for me t' hack it."

The jet was close enough to the ground that Sideswipe felt it safe to drop off and saunter over to his brother. He joined the small circle of mechs kneeling around the remote, dropping to his knees and poking at the still-sparking pile of machine guts with one finger.

"This jet does not move," Simmons said to Jazz. "It's going nowhere except back where it belongs. No more jet judo. And try to come up with a way to explain the dents."

"You want me to lie?" Jazz asked.

"Well, I certainly don't want to tell the nice Air Force people that they gave their jet to a bunch of giant robots so they could play 'pin the Autobot on the F-16'," the former agent shot back. Jazz merely laughed in reply.

"Uh oh," Sideswipe muttered as Simmons strode over. Lennox followed, probably making sure Simmons didn't turn around and quit so soon after the captain convinced him to come back.

"And what, exactly, do you call that?" the older man demanded sharply. All three Autobots exchanged looks. Bluestreak started to respond but Simmons held up a hand, cutting him off. The hand became a finger pointing to Sideswipe. "You. Answer. As simply as possible."

"Jet judo," the warrior said on a shrug.

"I know that," Simmons growled in exasperation. "I just didn't realize you were in such a big hurry to kill yourself."

"I knew what I was doing," came the injured reply. "I was in perfect control."

"You were ten seconds away from being a pancake."

"Well, it's not my fault they busted the controller," Sideswipe muttered insolently. "I would have been fine if Sunny hadn't been stupid."

"What?" the gold twin spat. "Oh, fine, blame this on me. You're the one who built this slagging controller. If it broke it's _your_ fault."

Sideswipe barked out a laugh, overriding Simmons' protests as he tried to get this conversation back on track. "Yeah, because obviously I should've known you'd grab it. I said be careful, didn't I? Right after-" He stopped himself, shooting a quick look towards Simmons.

"How did you even get this thing?" Simmons tried a safe, non-controversial topic. Sideswipe's near demise clearly unsettled him more than he cared to let on.

"We asked the people at the base," Sideswipe answered, sounding as though he were trying to explain physics to a houseplant.

"So you called up an Air Force base, asked if you could borrow an F-16, and they just gave you one?" Simmons glanced at Lennox, who shrugged in response. This seemed outstandingly stupid, especially considering the 'military experiment gone wrong' that had been Mission City.

"Ahh…" Sideswipe hesitated, trying to answer that without admitting to breaking any laws. Then Simmons saw him shoot a lightning-fast glance at something beyond him. He turned and stared at the silver Solstice, which sat in the baking sun as though it were just another unintelligent car.

"Jazz," the human groaned in realization. "Get over here."

"No thanks, I like it just fine where I am."

"Too bad." Simmons jerked his chin in a get-here-now gesture. The Solstice slowly drove over, looking as reluctant as a car could. Like a kid dragging his feet, Simmons thought wryly, and now he knew to include Jazz in the category of 'giant robot children'. It took almost a full minute, but finally Jazz was transformed and standing on the end of the row of transgressors.

"Now, let's try this again. You," and now he pointed to the saboteur. "How'd they get the jet?"

"They asked th' people at th' base."

Simmons stared at him, and Jazz finally grinned and shrugged.

"Okay, so I helped a little."

"A lot," Sunstreaker corrected snidely. Jazz ignored this.

"So maybe I accessed their mainframe an' did a little fiddlin'. Really, you guys gotta get better firewalls. It was pitiful."

"Yeah. I'll remember that. So what, you made that thing too?" Simmons gestured towards the remote. Jazz tilted his head to one side and studied it.

"Naw. Might've told 'em how, though."

"Maybe, might have. Notice a pattern here?" Simmons muttered to Lennox. The captain had taken a few steps back, pointedly separating himself from the older man.

"I stopped th' jet from crashin'. That counts for somethin', right?" Jazz looked hopeful. Simmons turned a dark glare on him and the saboteur rocked back, mumbling inaudibly as he did so.

The former agent turned away, pacing a little bit and dragging one hand through his short hair. Finally he came to his decision and turned back to face the four fidgety 'bots.

"I am tired," he stated flatly. "I have had a bad day. In fact, I've had a bad week. So you will out the jet back, tell the Air Force people you're sorry about its makeover, and do not do this again. If you feel the need to practice this…"

"Jet judo," Sideswipe supplied, sensing freedom.

"… jet judo again, make sure you don't get caught. And if you get caught, make sure I'm not the one who has to deal with the fallout. Now shoo."

There was a moment's pause. Then Sideswipe nudged his brother and both twins took off, not really going anywhere in specific except away from Simmons in case he changed his mind. Jazz transformed back and reactivated the link to the jet, causing its engines to fire up. He drove off as it lifted into the air, pointing towards the Air Force base before suddenly blasting off.

Bluestreak was left, looking uncomfortable, and Simmons smiled at him.

"All right, kid, back to base."

"Are you sure? Because-"

"Yes, I'm sure. Shut up and transform." Simmons cut him off before he could build up any real head of steam. Otherwise they'd be out here for hours. A few moments later he found himself staring at some sort of alien vehicle.

"Haven't had time to get an Earth form yet?" Lennox asked. Simmons answered before Bluestreak could.

"Too busy playing lackey for the twins. Can you transport humans?"

"Well, yes, but Prowl said he wanted us to-"

"Great. Get in and let's go." The human directed the last part towards Lennox as he strode over to the… thing. He paused and regarded Bluestreak's current form. "First thing you do when we get back is trade out vehicle forms, got it?"

"Yeah. I wanted to earlier, but Sideswipe-"

"Glad to hear it." Simmons studied the interior of the odd vehicle and sighed. The seats looked large and uncomfortable at best, but it was better than walking.

If there was one thing he could say about his job, it was that it certainly never got boring.


	8. Invasion of the Porsche People

True story: I was at the college computer lab and I randomly decided to search for Bluestreak's car form. This high school kid was sitting next to me and I'm looking at pictures of Jaguars and Ferraris and Porsches. Eventually I notice the kid isn't doing any work; he's just watching my screen. He notices me staring at him and he goes back to his computer, only instead of doing work he starts looking up cars as well. Ten minutes later there's four of them there, talking and laughing and generally being obnoxious teenage boys. This is, word for word, our conversation.

Me: Aren't you guys a little young to be running around a college?

Boy 1: We're honor students.

Boy 2: We have advanced classes in this college.

Me: So, this makes you, what, the smartest in your school?

Boy 1: Well, duh.

Me: -looks at their screen, which is covered with car pictures- I'm moving to Canada.

Disclaimer: Oh god, I wish I owned any one of the cars mentioned. Or even TF. But 'tis not to be.

--

"And they let them _borrow_ an F-16? I can't believe that!"

Simmons glanced up from his laptop and studied Sam. Jazz had just gotten done telling the story and his audience- the boy and Mikaela- were responding in a manner appropriate considering the out-and-out absurdity of the situation.

"Can't believe they let someone take a jet, or can't believe you missed it?" he asked as he shifted his gaze back to the screen. He'd ran a Google search of 'expensive car' and was now studying the various results. Bluestreak could by no means be trusted to choose his own car mode, especially not since whenever he tried the twins were inclined to stand on either side of him and blurt random and often crude comments. Fortunately the gunner had agreed to letting Simmons pick one out as long as the mech himself got the final say.

"Well, both," the teen admitted sheepishly.

"That's okay. If you ever need to borrow a fighter jet, just ask Jazz. He's the one who made it all happen." The older man smirked slightly as he clicked on the Jaguar home page. One of the twins' (read: Sunstreaker's) complaints was that Mirage's vehicle form was hideously expensive and made their own one hundred ninety thousand plus price tags seem tame. The last thing they needed was Bluestreak showing up their performance abilities.

"You did what?" Mikaela turned to the saboteur. Jazz chuckled.

"I did nothin' I'm admittin' to. But off th' record, he might be right."

"Might be nothing," Simmons snorted. By now he'd wandered off Jaguars and was studying Porsches. Behind him Captain Lennox stepped forward and pointed to one of the cars on the screen.

"I like this," he said as he knelt beside the table Simmons was sitting at. The former agent clicked on the car in question and was rewarded with a long list of varying models. He scrolled down silently, considering each one.

"And he almost crashed?" Sam continued the conversation with Jazz.

"Yeah, almost. Sunny broke th' remote they were usin' t' control th' jet. Nothin' to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?" Lennox echoed incredulously. "We would've been out there for weeks picking up all the pieces. Not to mention- wait, look at that one." Simmons was already clicking on it.

"530 horsepower," he muttered. "Zero to sixty in three-point-six seconds, two-oh-four mph top speed. And a respectable one hundred ninety-four thousand dollar price tag." Jazz came around to stand behind them.

"Okay, children," he drawled, "the point of this is exercise is not to outdo Commodore Narcissist and Captain Kamikaze."

The two humans considered this. Then Lennox turned back to the computer.

"Speaking of which, what are they?"

"Lamborghini Gallardo something. '09 I think."

"Look it up."

He was already on it, typing in the Lamborghini homepage. Sam moved closer while Jazz groaned and turned away.

"This is gonna cause some serious problems," he muttered to no one in particular. Simmons agreed with that but felt no need to say so. He was still trying to be mad about the whole jet judo thing.

"There!" Sam's arm snapped past Simmons' head and jabbed at the screen. "The Gallardo LP560-4... Why are there so many numbers?"

"Yes, thank you," Simmons ground out as he pushed the teen's hand away and rubbed at the print left on his laptop. He clicked on the proper model and then chose engine specs.

"325 km/h. Is that kilometers?" The teen was leaning over Lennox's shoulder, but the captain didn't seem to mind. Simmons probably would have 'accidentally' pushed him over backwards.

"Lamborghinis are Italian," Mikaela stated matter-of-factly. She was standing on the other side of the laptop, watching the three males with a look that clearly stated 'we are not actually members of the same species and I don't know why I talk to you'. "They use the metric system in Italy. And why are you three doing this?"

"Apparently it's a guy thing," Simmons answered. He was in the process of opening another window and searching for a conversion site.

"Hey, yeah. I thought you liked cars." Sam straightened up and shot his girlfriend a scandalized look. She rolled her eyes.

"There's a difference between liking cars and penis envy," she shot back. Lennox and Sam both made odd choking noises, but Simmons burst out laughing. He'd always liked that girl.

"I won't even ask what that means," Jazz said evenly.

"Better that you don't," Simmons agreed cheerfully. He grinned at the screen. "325 kilometers is two hundred and one miles."

"Score one for the Porsche," Lennox muttered. "And three-point-seven seconds for the Gallardo makes two."

"You do realize that our energy regulation systems make all that moot, right?" Jazz tried once more. Mikaela snorted and turned away, waving a hand dismissively.

"They're not looking to see which is best, they're just imaging cruising around in one of those cars. It's all about testosterone poisoning and showing off."

"But they _can _go cruisin' around in one of those," the saboteur said, sounding mystified. Simmons smirked at that- they'd finally found something Jazz couldn't wrap his CPU around in two seconds flat.

"Not without it talking back, which is the point. Just leave them alone; they'll stop when they get hungry and find out we aren't bringing the food to them."

"Send Blue in here," Simmons called out after them as they left.

Bluestreak wandered in sometime during the following conversation. Simmons didn't know exactly when; he had a feeling the gunner had stood there for several minutes before realizing they were paying absolutely no attention. Finally the mech made a noise similar to someone clearing their throat. The older man pushed the other two away and waved the 'bot over.

"This," he said grandly, showing him the picture on the laptop screen, "is the Porsche 911 GT2. Will it work?"

"Well, I guess," the gunner replied as he straightened up. He would get the vehicle specs off the internet himself, Simmons knew. "But can I change the color? I don't like black, it gets dirty too easy. Plus…"

"I still like the Jaguar," Lennox muttered under the prattle as he glanced back at the laptop screen.

"Jaguar or Porsche. Pick one, he can't be both." Simmons hit the back button until they were on the Jaguar homepage.

"You know, I heard on the radio about a new Lamborghini model that's priced at a million dollars," Sam added. "Maybe we could-"

"We don't need another Lamborghini, we've got enough issues with the two we already have," Simmons interrupted.

"I doubt the car mode has any bearing on personality," Lennox pointed out.

"Better not to risk it."

"… so I really like grey. Is that okay?"

"Huh?" All three humans turned at once to regard Bluestreak, whose sudden silence sounded odd. The mech in turn stared at them questioningly. "What?" Simmons added intelligently.

"Was he talking this whole time?" Sam asked softly.

"Yeah, I think so," Lennox answered in the same tone.

"Grey!" Simmons barked, replaying what few words of Bluestreak's monologue he'd heard. "Grey works. Nice, neutral color. Go with grey."

If Bluestreak realized that they'd been ignoring him, he didn't show it. Instead he brightened at Simmons' words and gave a cheerful "okay!" before heading out of the room.

"He's like a puppy," Simmons said into the silence. "A big, grey, gun-toting puppy. If he had a tail he'd be wagging it."

"So? He's happy." Lennox reached over and snapped the laptop shut, probably to keep himself from looking up that million dollar car. "Do you have a problem with happy people or something?"

"Lemme guess, you were always the guy who kicks puppies," Sam added. Simmons snorted and shook his head as he reached around to unplug the laptop.

"I have never kicked a puppy in my life. Shot a few, but never kicked one. And I have a problem against happy people if they're only acting happy to cover up how miserable they really are."

"You think Blue's miserable?" Lennox asked quietly. Simmons shot him a get-real look.

"Everyone's miserable in their own way. It's how you handle the misery that matters. Bluestreak hasn't learned how to handle it, so he tries to hide it."

Lennox and Sam exchanged a quick glance, trying to gauge what the other thought of the older man's analysis. Before they could say anything a superbly annoyed Sunstreaker appeared in the doorway.

"You," he snapped, glaring at Simmons. "Out here."

"What's the magic word?" Simmons shot back.

"_Now_!"

The human heaved a long-suffering sigh and followed the yellow twin into the main room. A gunmetal grey Porsche sat near the doorway. Sunstreaker stormed over to the sleek machine and pointed at it.

"And what is this?" he demanded.

"I'm gonna take a guess and say it's Bluestreak," Simmons answered blandly. Sam hid a laugh behind an exaggerated cough.

"Why does he look like this?" Sunstreaker continued sharply. Simmons shrugged.

"It blends in better?" he tried. The warrior gave the human a glare that a shark would be proud of.

"Change it," he ordered imperiously.

"Yeah, sure, I'll just wave my magic wand and all will be right in the universe," Simmons rolled his eyes. "So you don't have the greatest car form around anymore. Suck it up and deal with it."

Sunstreaker stepped forward, reaching out as though strangling the air, then jerked back and turned. Prowl stood behind him, arms folded over his chest and disapproving scowl firmly in place.

"What, exactly, is the problem?" the tactician asked. Sunstreaker glanced at Bluestreak, then at the humans, before returning his gaze to his superior. He didn't really need to say anything, which was good as he appeared to be unsure how to spin this to his advantage. "Well, Sunstreaker, if you can give me one good reason why Bluestreak should change his vehicle form, I'll tell him to. Otherwise, he's staying as he is."

The yellow twin pulled himself up to his full height and sneered. Prowl waited several moments, and when it became obvious that no explanation was in order, he nodded and stepped aside so the warrior could pass. With a snarl the twin pushed past.

"Maybe I should change it, if it's gonna bother him," Bluestreak offered nervously. Simmons barked out a laugh.

"He's acting like a thirteen-year-old girl who just found out that someone else is wearing the same dress to Homecoming," he said. "He needs to grow up. Don't change anything."

"But what if he-"

"Not a thing, Blue," Simmons repeated firmly.

"Well, okay. If you say so." Bluestreak couldn't sound any more unsure if he'd tried. Simmons turned to Lennox and muttered "sad puppy" under his breath before walking out.

The more he hung around this place, the more he felt like a counselor at some otherworldly summer camp. Someone just bring in the straightjacket now.


	9. Halloween

Oi! Two days after I get over my first miserable cold of the winter, I slip and fall and break something in my foot. At least, I think I did. I'm not too sure, and as I have no insurance, it will remain a mystery. At least I can hobble around the house well enough, except when my kitten tackles my feet cause I'm walking funny, and the pain is getting better. So I'm fine, no need to worry and all that.

And I have noticed a trend, as the number of reviews per chapter is impacted directly by the involvement of a certain Autobot gunner. Clearly Bluestreak has quite the fan club out there, of which I am unabashedly a card-carrying member. So here ya go. Cute, adorable, little-puppy Bluestreak coming up. (me, trolling for reviews? not at all.)

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

"So the humans worship a giant rabbit?"

Simmons stopped dead in his tracks despite the overwhelming desire to dash madly past the open door. It was, after all, Wheeljack's lab; his one visit to that room had ended with bullets and tables flying. The first was contributed by a self-firing gun gone haywire. The second was Ratchet's way of accepting Wheeljack's apology concerning said gun. However, he could all but hear the sound of the internet doing questionable things to a 'bot's sanity.

"I don't know," came the perplexed-sounding answer. "It's very difficult to understand. Plus I'm just an engineer. If you want someone who understands the human culture, you need to talk to Jazz."

"Or a human," Simmons pointed out mildly as he strolled in. Wheeljack- who had finally snapped out of his post-destruction funk- and Bluestreak both looked at him in surprise. He was probably the last person they would expect to volunteer himself for the Welcome to Earth Suckers tour. Then again, these two topped out the list of mechs Simmons would willingly spend time around, under the proviso that Wheeljack be allowed to handle nothing more dangerous than a cardboard box and packing peanuts.

Of course, that list was made up of two and a half mechs, the half being Jazz when he wasn't allowing the twins to talk him into stupid things. Still, they were on it. That was all that mattered.

"Sam was talking about Easter," Bluestreak began, and Simmons glanced around in search of a chair. It was early October. Either Sam had lost track of his months or this was going to take even longer than the normal eternity-and-a-half required for Blue to explain something. "He said something about how his mother still hides Easter eggs and gives him a basket. I asked him what he meant and he said it was a holiday in the spring, only he didn't know what it was celebrated for. And I looked it up, and it's about giant rabbits going around giving out candy to kids dressed up in costumes and people eating turkey and a weird tree covered in pink hearts and little sparkling humans with wings."

Simmons merely stared at him in mute shock. Wheeljack nudged the gunner with an elbow.

"Don't forget the rockets," he ordered.

"Oh, yeah. They set off rockets too, which seems really weird cause they don't actually try to shoot anything, they just aim at nothing. Prowl says we're not supposed to mention the rockets because if the twins hear about it they'll find a way to get some. But I was just asking because it seems like a lot of stuff happening in one day and the rabbit seems kinda odd. Do humans really worship rabbits?"

The human continued to stare at the two 'bots, his brain trying to wrap itself around the mass of misinformation he'd been handed. After a moment of this they started to get understandably antsy.

"What's wrong with him?" Bluestreak asked. Wheeljack leaned closer, studying the human. "You don't think his CPU crashed, do you?"

"Humans have brains, Blue, not CPUs. And an organic's brain can't crash." Here the engineer reached forward with one finger tentatively, stopping just shy of prodding the little creature. "At least, I don't think they can. Maybe we better go get Ratchet."

"Don't you dare," Simmons snapped. Both 'bots jumped slightly at his sudden revival, then turned to him with obvious relief.

"Are you all right?" Wheeljack asked carefully. "You were very quiet for a moment there."

"Yeah, I'm good." The human turned to regard Bluestreak. "And where, pray tell, did you learn of this… interesting holiday?"

"The internet," came the reply, and Simmons bit back a groan.

"Hey, kid, I got a bridge to sell you," he said calmly.

"Really? You own a bridge? Where is it? And is it really for sale, so anyone can buy it, or-"

"Blue," Wheeljack interrupted gently. "He doesn't have a bridge."

"But he said-"

"He's saying you're gullible," the engineer continued. Bluestreak turned a thoughtful gaze on Simmons. After a moment he gave a disheartened 'oh', and the way he hung his head made him look so pitifully pathetic that the human felt like a royal jackass.

"All right," he muttered. "You're new here, so I'll cut you some slack. There are rules regarding internet use, Blue. The first is don't believe everything you see on it."

"But Prowl said-"

"Never mind what Prowl said," Simmons cut in. "As a member of the race that created the internet, I'm telling you: do not trust it. Most of it is total crap, and most of what's left over is just plain wrong. If you've got a question about human culture, ask a human. Or Jazz- he seems pretty well-informed. All right?"

"All right," came the cheerful agreement. Simmons turned to Wheeljack in despair.

"How is it that whenever I'm mean to that kid, I feel like I just kicked a puppy?"

The engineer chuckled. "It's always been like that," he answered. "He does that to just about everyone."

"So Blue," Simmons said loudly, and the gunner turned back to them. "I think I figured out your problem. Did you look up Easter or holidays?"

"Holidays," came the confused reply. The human grinned at that.

"I figured that. What you described is what you'd get if you put all the major American holidays into a blender and pushed 'liquefy'. You actually mentioned six holidays, none of which are celebrated on the same day, or even in the same month. There's Easter, Valentine's Day, Independence Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas."

"Which one has the rockets?" Wheeljack asked, and Simmons took a moment to question the wisdom of telling him. Finally he decided that it was safe enough, since July wasn't for another nine months.

"Independence Day," he answered. "Fourth of July. And they're not rockets, they're fireworks."

"So humans don't really shoot each other with them?"

"Seriously, kid. Stay off the internet. Fireworks are all about flashy lights and pretty colors. If someone shoots someone else with one, it's because they're either stupid or drunk. Or both."

"Drunk," Bluestreak echoed blankly.

"Overenergized," Wheeljack proffered.

"Oh. Can humans get overenergized? I didn't know they could drink energon."

"We can't," Simmons said hastily, before they got the idea to try something immensely stupid. "We can, however, drink alcohol. This generally results in such experiences as thinking we're really good at singing, that the cute girl at the bar is flirting with us, and that the coat rack by the door is meant to be hit on."

"Followed by memory loss, purging, and a great deal of pain," Wheeljack added.

"Whaddya know," the human chortled. "Two entirely different races get the exact same hangover."

"So what is Independence Day celebrated for?" the engineer asked.

"America's declaring independence from the British," Simmons answered. "We have barbeques and watch fireworks at night."

"Huh." Wheeljack considered this, then glanced back at the human. "And what's Valentine's Day?"

"People give candy and flowers to others," Simmons answered with a shrug. "Never really understood that one, myself."

They continued down this road for a while, with the man trying to explain the what's and why's of various holidays without getting too into the religious part. After a while Bluestreak asked about Halloween and both 'bots seemed to have a hard time accepting the answer.

"So sparklings- kids, sorry- go up to strangers and expect to get candy from them?" Wheeljack demanded. He sounded somehow insulted by the idea.

"While wearing costumes. Yep." The human nodded.

"And people are expected to just give it to them?"

"It's not like there's packs of wild children roaming the streets, dressed like ghosts and vampires and ambushing people," Simmons snorted. "They have to knock on the front door. If you don't want to give out candy, you keep your light off. No one has to do anything."

"Uh oh," Bluestreak muttered suddenly. The other two glanced at him, then looked where he was looking.

Sideswipe stood in the doorway with what could only be described as a shit-eater's grin.

"Hey, 'Jack," he chirped in his I-have-an-evil-plan-and-you-are-going-to-help-me voice. "I've got a favor to ask."

--

"I had nothing to do with it!"

Prowl looked up from the oversized chess board at the loud- and vaguely ominous- yell. He'd been playing Jazz who, by means of applied cheating, was the closest match Prowl could find. For a moment he stared at the wall beyond his opponent. Then he turned and studied Simmons.

"I had nothing to do with it," the human repeated. "I was having a calm, civilized conversation with Bluestreak and Wheeljack, when _he _came in."

"Don't think we need t' ask who 'he' is," Jazz drawled. Prowl shot the saboteur a quelling glance.

"So this is not my fault. I just wanted you to know that." Simmons glanced over his shoulder, barked out a few choice phrases, and scrambled out of the doorway. A moment later Sideswipe gave a barbaric war-cry and lunged into the room.

Prowl stared at the twin, who was covered in large pieces of plastic and plywood, with white sheets draped randomly. There seemed to be a meaning behind the arrangement, some sort of design, but Prowl couldn't identify it. Jazz, still sitting across from him, burst into merry laughter.

"Guess what I am," the bizarre mech ordered. It was too good an opening for even the normally steel-willed Prowl to pass up.

"A lunatic," he deadpanned. Sideswipe shot him a cheerful smirk.

"Well, yeah, but still."

"Th' _Flyin' Dutchman_," Jazz offered, still cackling.

"Don't encourage him," Prowl countered immediately.

"The what?" Sideswipe cocked his head to one side, no doubt searching the internet for information, then frowned. "No! C'mon, be serious!"

Jazz began to laugh again, curling onto one side as if to protect himself from the stupidity. Prowl turned his back to the red idiot behind him and tried to resist the desire to beat his head against the table.

"'Be serious,' says the moron running around in plywood and tablecloths," Simmons jeered. Sideswipe ignored him.

"You really can't tell?" he asked, trying for piteous and falling far short.

"I really don't care," Prowl answered.

"I'm a seeker!"

The tactician paused in the middle of reaching for his bishop. He watched as Jazz slowly pulled himself upright. Then he turned and studied the warrior. He did look slightly jet-like, if one's imagination could translate plywood and cloth into wings and turbines.

"Sides, dude," Jazz finally seemed capable of stringing together a whole sentence. "No. Just… no."

"You don't like it?" Now Sideswipe was scowling at them. "But I worked so hard on this."

"Yeah. It must've been real taxing for a warrior like you to sit on a table and boss Wheeljack around." Simmons scoffed. Sideswipe made an odd motion, holding one hand out flat and waving it in front of his neck. The human continued regardless. "And this isn't the worst part."

"It gets better?" Jazz perked up. Prowl momentarily debated whether or not he wanted to hear the worst part, but before he could decide Sideswipe took a half-step backwards.

"Come here, Blue," he called. There was a brief pause.

"I don't want to," the gunner said, sounding mournful, from somewhere in the hallway. "I look stupid."

"No, you don't. Come here." Sideswipe paused, then added in a less friendly tone, "Wrong way, Blue. Over here."

After a moment Bluestreak sulked into view, looking as thoroughly unhappy as Prowl had ever seen him. In fact, the gunner looked ready to bolt. He also looked like he'd gotten into a fight with a washing machine and lost. Sideswipe tried to place an arm around the gunner's shoulders but had to stop when one of his 'wings' started pushing Bluestreak away. He started to pull away but halted when the gunner came with him.

"Oh, God," Simmons groaned. "Now they're stuck together."

"No we're not," Sideswipe snapped. He tried to swing his arm up and a something ripped. One of the plastic pieces supporting Blue's 'wing' rose with the arm, pulling the gunner off-balance. Sideswipe shook his arm and Bluestreak's entire upper body followed the motion.

"Now tell them why you can't help him, Blue," the human said in a surprisingly friendly voice. The gunner glanced away and murmured something.

"What was that?" Jazz leaned forward.

"Something about how the eighty-two rolls of duct tape that Sideswipe used to keep him from running away make it hard to do anything."

"You duct taped him?" Prowl turned back in shock. Jazz had a better question, which he aimed towards Bluestreak.

"You let him tape you up?"

"Well, yeah," Simmons explained, since neither of the two 'seekers' seemed inclined to answer. "He couldn't very well sit on the poor kid the whole time."

"You _sat_- why am I surprised?" Prowl stood up and walked over. Upon close examination he could easily see the silvery sheen of duct tape pinning Bluestreak's arms to his sides. He turned towards the human. "And where were you during this?"

"Sitting in the storage bin Wheeljack previously kept eighty-two rolls of duct tape in," came the humorless response. Prowl turned to glare at Sideswipe.

"Fine," the red twin snapped. "Fine. I try to bring a little holiday spirit to this boring place… C'mon, Blue." He spun on his heel, yanking his fellow would-be jet around so fast that both ended up in a heap on the floor. Jazz once more descended into laughter as Sideswipe tried to stand up and failed miserably. The twin glared at the saboteur and cursed heartily. Prowl stepped over the pile and followed the hallway down to the last room.

"Sir, I have recently acquired a certain useless object," he stated blandly. Prime didn't even look at him.

"No, Prowl. You can't sell Sideswipe on eBay."

"I already asked," Ironhide explained when Prowl frowned at his commander.

"Understandable. Unfortunately, Prime, we appear to have run into a small problem."

Now Prime looked up from the computer console he'd been tinkering with. "Oh?"

"Yes. We require your assistance outside of the rec room."

"What, you can't get rid of him, so you're making me clean up after him?" Prime seemed amused by the concept. Prowl gave a follow-me gesture and headed back the way he'd come.

The tangle of mechs on the floor had only grown. It seemed Jazz had gotten close enough for Sideswipe to tackle and was now pinned between the twin and a loudly protesting Bluestreak. Simmons stood nearby, arms folded over his chest and scowl firmly in place. He glanced up at them.

"Like I said," he announced. "I had nothing to do with it." He backed himself up and leaned against the wall. Prowl turned to address Prime and so almost missed the human's muttered statement.

"God, I love my job."


	10. Security Measures

Yes, an update! What took so long? You'll never know.

Actually, the real answer to that would be real life, my mother's birthday, and utter lack of any ideas where I'm going with this. So I used the tried-and-true method: when I'm stuck, I look at my reviews and take my ideas off y'all's suggestions. Therefore enters Red Alert, another character with a good many interpretations. Mine is: he's damn good at his job, which makes him slightly twitchy. But I never liked those stories where he freaks out over the littlest of things. He's had the entire Autobot army trying his sanity day in and out for thousands of years. He can't be a complete spaz.

Disclaimer: If I owned TF… the world would be a scarier place, that's for sure.

---

Simmons pulled into the parking lot, his car's headlights splashing brightly across the unlit area, and slammed on the brakes. He dropped his head back against the seat's cushion and groaned as he dragged a hand over his face. Then he sat up and frowned at the two pairs of bright blue lights floating eerily just beyond the range of his lights. He sighed, shut the car's engine down and swung himself out, heading into the darkness.

He stopped halfway and pulled out his cell phone, snapping it open and putting it on speaker. Then he replayed the message he'd gotten a little over an hour ago as he held the phone up.

"_He's crazy! He's utterly fragging insane! All day, he's been trying to kill me! Swear to Primus, he's after me. He hates me. He wants to hang my head on the wall like humans do with those horned animals-"_

"_Deer."_ A new voice, its bored-to-tears tone sharp contrast to the first speaker's hysteria, put in abruptly.

"_Deer, whatever. The point is, he's trying to kill me! And if he does kill me, you know what he's gonna do? He's gonna sell me on eBay. I heard them talking about it. You will be alone in this universe!"_

"_Hurry up and die, then! I'm getting tired of your whining."_

"_You're a horrible brother and I hope the sun bleaches your paintjob!"_

"_Sideswipe?"_ The third voice was new and sounded muffled by distance.

Sideswipe screamed. Not the normal scream a mech produced; the gut-wrenching, wordless cry that humans couldn't begin to describe, never mind replicate. No, this was the I-am-an-eight-year-old-girl-and-I-just-found-a-frog-in-my-sock-drawer scream. It nearly blew out the phone's speaker.

Jazz, one of the two mechs in front of Simmons, gave an incredulous laugh and turned to face the other in disbelief.

"Clearly I didn't mean to scream like that," Sideswipe muttered sulkily.

"I didn't know we _could_ scream like that," Jazz countered. Simmons snapped his phone shut and slipped it in his pocket.

"Third call I received in twenty minutes. Let me explain something to you idiots about humans: teenagers may be able to pop out of bed at any hour and be perfectly functional after a cappuccino or two, but adults- real humans- can't do that. The older we get, the less get-up-and-go we have. I am approaching what we call middle age, if I'm not actually in it. And even though I might still be able to get up at two thirty in the morning to deal with a moron who's watched the _Blair Witch Project_ seven times too many, I have damn well earned the right to not have to!"

"Well, good for you, but I'm serious. He's been after me all day!" Sideswipe was whining now, never a good sign. Jazz chortled to himself and rocked back on his heels- did 'bots even have heels?- to watch.

"You seem to be of the opinion that I care if someone kills you. Let me clarify this point: if someone helped me get rid of you I would see to it that they are awarded a sainthood."

"All right, I might have deserved that," the warrior offered grudgingly. "But seriously, you have to talk to him. He speaks your language."

"And what language is that?" Simmons asked irritably. He was trying not to lose his temper, but Jazz's broad grin as he watched the back-and-forth like he was at a tennis match was surprisingly annoying.

"Paranoid psycho."

"I'm leaving," Simmons told them as he turned and headed back to his car. "And I'm not coming back, because today is Sunday and I'm taking a day off for the first time in six months. If any of you lunatics call me I'm going to pitch my phone out the window and move to Detroit."

"Why Detroit?" Jazz asked curiously. Sideswipe growled and, in four broad strides, put himself between the human and his car.

"You can't leave!" the red twin barked. "You're already here, so you might as well meet him, right?"

"Right," Simmons drawled. "Except I have no intention of meeting anyone new. I'm tired of your lot; every new 'bot ends up worse than the last. And we're not already anywhere."

Sideswipe glanced around with a scowl. He'd ordered the human to meet him- and a nosy saboteur who'd decided to tag along- in the back lot of a shut-down shopping mall almost ten miles from their base. After a moment he turned back to Simmons, then glanced towards the SUV he was almost leaning against.

Jazz, apparently familiar with the way Sideswipe's processor worked, gave a sharp snort. "Right. That's my cue t' leave."

Simmons turned to him, about to ask where he was going, when an unholy shriek of metal and an ominous pair of _thuds_ drew his attention back to the twin. Sideswipe still stood next to his car, only now the SUV was lying on its back, its tires spinning slightly in the air. It looked like the death twitches of a dying animal.

"What?" the red warrior demanded innocently to the glare Simmons gave him. "It fell over. I had nothing to do with it, I was just standing here."

"It fell over." The human wasn't convinced. Then again, he didn't need to be. Whether or not Sideswipe was lying, there was no way he was going to be setting his car right by himself.

"But hey, if you need a ride, I'm fine with it. Hope you don't mind stopping by the base first." And Sideswipe transformed and swung open his driver's door.

For a moment Simmons balked, not entirely sure he trusted his well-being to a creature that was essentially a war machine with the maturity level of a second grader. Then he blanked out the 'war machine' part and reminded himself that it wouldn't be too often he got to sit in the driver's seat of a car worth more than his college education.

"Fine," he snapped. "Ten minutes. Then you come back here and put my car upright and I go home."

"Ten minutes," Sideswipe agreed amicably, which set off all sorts of warning bells in Simmons' head. But before he could cancel this little outing and get out off, the Lamborghini's engine revved and the sleek monster of a car leapt forward. It took the human a moment to peel himself off the seat, where the momentum had plastered him. When he did he slapped the steering wheel.

"Speed limit, Herbie! Remember what happened last time?"

"Herbie?!" came the indignant reply. Over their internal line Simmons could hear Jazz laughing. Fortunately Sideswipe put the insult aside and slowed down, doubtless in no big hurry to repeat the impounded-and-shock-collared routine.

"So who is this paranoid psycho I'm supposed to understand?" Simmons asked.

"Autobot security director," Jazz chirped. "Name's Red Alert. He's not really that bad normally, it's just that he's absolute murder on troublemakers."

"I'm all for that," the human muttered around a yawn. Not that he honestly thought the troublemakers could be contained, especially not Hurricane Sideswipe.

"Ahh… might wanna reserve judgment 'til you meet him," the saboteur warned.

This warning turned out to be very apt indeed. The new mech was standing by the open bay doors at the base, arms folded over his chest and dark scowl firmly in place. Simmons felt inexplicably like a teenage boy returning his date home an hour after curfew.

"Where did you two go?" he demanded irately. He turned and walked alongside Sideswipe when the twin drove right past him. "What did I say earlier about going anywhere without telling someone? It's basic security and you two are already disregarding it! I certainly expected better of you, Jazz, as an officer!"

"That's right, Red," Jazz agreed, and there was the tiniest hint of steel in his voice. "And as an officer, I approved this trip, so try t' save th' lecture."

"Did Jazz just pull rank?" Simmons asked in total shock.

"Yup. That tell you anything?"

Only that he was going to regret this.

Red Alert apparently didn't like being reminded of Jazz's status and gave an annoyed _harrumph_. He headed into the open bay and the two 'bots followed him. The base had at one point been a warehouse of some sort and the 'bots were altering the loading bays to fit their needs. Ratchet and Wheeljack both had one, the medic's being the medbay and the engineer's being his lab, and it was no coincidence that they were side-by-side. This one appeared to have been gutted of all the miscellaneous junk left scattered everywhere but had yet to be converted into anything. Currently its only inhabitants were a supremely agitated Sunstreaker and, wisely standing as far from the yellow twin as possible, a nervous Bluestreak.

Simmons got out and the two late arrivals transformed and joined the Row of the Condemned, all facing Red Alert. The human retreated to the corner and settled himself against the wall as the lecture began.

"I know that you four have been allowed to run wild for a long time now. You have had no supervision, no responsible Autobots to keep you under control."

"Prime doesn't count?" Jazz asked, and Red Alert stared blankly at him for a moment.

"Fine. Three of you, then. But now I am here and I intend to lay down rules and if you breach them- what is _that_?"

Simmons blinked and tilted his head to one side, studying the 'bot that was staring at him. "Excuse me?"

"'That' is Agent Simmons, th' human-Autobot liaison," Jazz explained calmly. Red Alert looked at him, then peered closely at the human.

"This is the one that captured Bumblebee?"

"I was doing my job," Simmons shrugged. He'd gotten enough grief over his kidnapping Bumblebee that ho no longer tried to defend himself. Best to just take the abuse and move the conversation along.

"You need to leave." Red Alert frowned at him. "You are a massive security breach."

"I'm a what?" Simmons pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps forward, noting that the 'bot scuttled the same distance backwards as he did so.

"You have not been cleared, and therefore are a major security breach. Please leave."

It was very tempting to walk out. That he didn't have a ride home was only a mild inconvenience; it would be easy enough to get a ride from Prowl or perhaps Mirage, who was slowly adjusting to Simmons' presence and even occasionally remained visible whenever the human walked into the room he was in. But this was a fight he had to pick as a native of Earth.

"Hello pot, kettle calling," he snapped. "You haven't exactly been cleared either, but you don't see me telling you to leave."

"I am the Autobot Security Director," came the reply in an imperious you-may-bow-now tone. Simmons snorted.

"You're a giant alien robot toting more firepower than an average battle cruiser. I'm a six-foot-two human who's not even allowed to carry a gun anymore. Which is more dangerous here?" He put his hands on his hips and pulled a wide-eyed face. "Going out on a limb here, but I think it might be you."

"I am an officer of the Autobot army. I have been cleared."

"For the Autobots, maybe," Simmons answered. "But not for Earth. We've got standards here, you know, and one of them happens to be that we don't like you guys running around shooting stuff for no reason. How am I to know if you're gonna go pulling stunts like that?"

Red Alert half-turned and pointed towards the twins. "I'm not like them."

"Maybe not," the human allowed. "But that doesn't change anything. The point is that you're just going to have to go against tradition and put a little faith in me. I've been working with these lunatics for several months now, and I haven't betrayed anyone. I did leave Sideswipe in an impound lot, but since then he's 'borrowed' a fighter jet and duct taped a fellow Autobot so he couldn't run away and dressed him up like a seeker, so he's got no right to complain."

"You failed to inform Optimus Prime that you knew of the location of the Allspark and Megatron."

"I didn't know Optimus Prime existed until he peeled the roof off my car like a sardine can," Simmons informed him. "And he didn't exactly advertise what he was looking for, so you can't say I wouldn't have told him."

"Would you, had he asked?" Jazz chipped in. Simmons glanced at him.

"No," he admitted easily. "But he didn't, so it wasn't as though I lied to him."

"Splittin' hairs now," the saboteur pointed out calmly, and Simmons shrugged.

"This is the Autobot base-" Red Alert began stiffly.

"On Earth, not Cybertron. Earth is the human's domain. We've agreed to share it with you. However, you gotta meet us halfway. If you've got an issue with humans, deal with it."

After a long, quiet moment, Red Alert nodded. "Very well. I will accept that."

There was a brief pause, then Simmons gestured towards the four 'bots beyond the security director. "Got problems with them, I take it?"

"Yes." Red Alert turned a dark glare on them, then shot a hopeful glance towards the human. "Prowl did mention something about security cameras…"

"We can order them off the internet, but it's gonna be a while. We've got a quarterly allowance and we spent most of it already. Paid off a boatload of speeding tickets."

Sideswipe hunched over under the force of Red Alert's glare and grumbled something. Simmons grunted and gestured for the security director to follow him as he headed out into the hallway.

"I can call my boss and see if he'll give us an advance or something, but until then we'll just have to make do with what we've got here. I can also contact the Secretary of Defense and see if we can get you tapped into certain military networks. Keep you in the loop and all that."

"That would be appreciated," Red Alert stopped just outside the doorway and shot a withering glare towards the 'bots still in the loading bay. "It's rare I have someone try to help my instead of making my job harder."

"Sure thing. You boys have fun now," Jazz chirped as he waved Red on. They waited for a few minutes after he vanished before turning to face each other.

"They got along," Sunstreaker, no in a considerably better mood, smirked at Jazz. "You owe me."

"Free car wash for a month, I got ya," the saboteur replied in a tone that was far too calmly accepting. The yellow twin studied him, trying to figure out his game. Rarely did Jazz lose, and when he did, it tended to be on purpose.

"Worked better than I hoped," Sideswipe cackled. "They're gonna be so busy fine-tuning security around here they won't bother me for weeks."

"And after that, when th' security's so tight, what then?" Jazz asked mildly. Sideswipe, never a long-range planner, merely shrugged. Bluestreak was frowning at the saboteur.

"Free car washes for a month?" he repeated, and Jazz shot him an alarmed look. "Does this have something to do with that phone call you got yesterday? Because it's not really fair if you're giving him something he's already-"

"Alright, kiddies, play time's over. I gotta go." Jazz made a beeline for the door, easily dodging Sunstreaker's grab.

"What phone call?" The yellow warrior turned, all menace and fierceness, on the gunner. Bluestreak recoiled and jabbered out the answer as fast as he could.

"The people at the car wash called to say they were starting a credit for you and that someone, I think it might have been one of the humans, had already put down enough money for you to get one wash every day for a month and Jazz was the one who talked to them-"

"JAZZ!" Sunstreaker roared, turning to where the saboteur had been. Not surprisingly, Jazz was no longer there. The yellow twin took off after him at a run, bellowing threats as he went. Bluestreak relaxed, grateful that Sunstreaker's infamous temper was directed at someone not himself. Sideswipe laughed and dropped his hand onto the gunner's shoulder.

"Nice," he chuckled. "Prowl isn't gonna be happy, but that's okay. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make sure my brother doesn't permanently damage someone." And he trotted out, leaving a confused and slightly scared Bluestreak standing in the bay alone.

Nothing made sense anymore, he thought helplessly. Then he shrugged it off and left the bay, heading in the opposite direction the twins had gone.

Not that anything had ever made any sense before.


	11. Judgement Day

Once upon a time, in a chapter far past, the great author Flame received a review that mentioned a certain other ex-S7 agent, and how our dear Simmons' daily reports would reduce that man into a quivering, laughing lump. The great author Flame took her inspiration thus and wrote the following chapter.

(translation: welcome, Tiamat, to the glorious ranks of Those Who Inspired Further Stupidity. Here's your official membership button. Fortunately there are no fees, but kindly ignore the author if she tries to chew on your brain for more ideas.)

Shameless self-promotion: go look at my other fic, peoples! It's called Sympathy for the Devil and it's another Simmons-centric. Except unlike this mess you see here, it's just a collection of little drabbles. You know, the 'I wanna write but I feel lazy so I'll write something short' collection. And I got a lot of positive feedback on my tamer version of Red Alert, which I greatly appreciate. See, folks, it's possible to be both fun _and_ sane!

Disclaimer: I do not own a damn thing... -cries-

---

"I'm sorry, he did what?"

Simmons glanced up, his train of thought derailed by the question, and frowned at the papers held up questioningly in front of him. He reached out and turned them so he could read the words typed across them, then grunted.

"Took sheet plastic, plywood, and tablecloths and dressed up like a seeker."

Thomas Banachek, his oldest and perhaps only true friend, snorted and glanced at the report again. "I read that much," he said. "What I meant was, what _is_ a seeker? And why did he dress up like one?"

"It was Halloween," Simmons countered, wondering why he was defending the moron who was their current topic of conversation. "He was just getting into the spirit of things."

"By..." Tom read the report again, then gave his friend a flat stare. "Duct taping one of his fellow Autobots so he couldn't run away and sitting on his superior officer."

"Seeing as to how that 'superior officer' was Jazz, I don't see how it actually counts."

The older man rolled his eyes but didn't pursue that topic of conversation. He knew Simmons far too well to bother. "And you still haven't said what a seeker is."

"Decepticon jet," Simmons answered calmly. "Like the one in Mission City."

"Decepticon jet?" Tom echoed. "What are Autobot jets called, then?"

"... Autobots?" the younger man offered. Tom let out an exasperated sigh and Simmons could tell he was getting close to the level of annoyance necessary to force a change in subject. "Honestly, I don't know. I never really asked."

"Why did Sideswipe dress up like a seeker, then?" Tom tried one last time.

"Because he's Sideswipe. He's an idiot. If he were a little smarter I might say that the irony appealed to him, but I don't think it ever even occurred to him."

"What irony?"

"The irony of the master and co-creator of jet judo dressing up like a jet for Halloween."

There was a long silence after that, as Tom tried to figure out if he wanted to know what that meant- he eventually would, since the report concerning the borrowed F-16 was in the pile in front of him, but sometimes ignorance was bliss. Simmons smirked at him and munched another French fry.

They were sitting at a picnic table outside a McDonald's, positioned far enough from any other tables to prevent eavesdroppers. Once a month they had these meetings, except last month's had been canceled due to Simmons' unproductive trip to DC. Now that he looked at the reports piled on the table, Simmons couldn't help but wonder if the 'bots had just waited until he was broken in before returning to their previously scheduled stupidity. The last month and a half had been more interesting than the other five combined.

Sometimes Simmons missed their old S7 days. Things had been much easier back then. Then again, he never would have met such characters as the twins or Jazz or Red Alert back then either. It was a fair trade, he decided. Sanity for entertainment.

"He flipped your car over and left it sitting in a parking lot?!"

"We set it back upright before anyone saw it," Simmons explained carelessly. He had known Tom for the better part of his entire life; indeed, they'd worked together for more years than either was willing to admit. They therefore were familiar with each other's little quirks. One of Simmons' was that he tended to think nothing of breaking the rules as long as he didn't get caught. In this manner he'd clearly found a kindred spirit in Sideswipe.

"What would you have done if someone had seen it?" Tom demanded. In direct regard to Simmons' rule-bending, he tended to overcompensate and sometimes treated the other man like a child.

"Call it a practical joke and scare them off with my magical transforming robot car."

"Please tell me you're kidding."

Simmons hesitated just a second too long. "All right. Just kidding."

"And the Director wondered why I said you were the only one who could hope to fit in there," Tom muttered. He dropped the page on the 'what the hell' pile, currently the biggest pile on the table, and picked up the next one.

Simmons' cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the text message he'd received. Then he turned and peered over his shoulder at the grey Porsche sitting in the parking lot. After a moment's thought he turned back to regard the report Tom was holding.

"What happened in that one?" he asked.

"Uhh... nothing much," Tom answered. "Week of the twelfth."

Simmons cast his mind back, trying to remember a week where nothing interesting happened. Finally he came up with the answer.

"Oh, right. That was Sunstreaker's week-long 'Bluestreak has a nicer car mode, I hate you all' bitch party. Pretty quiet week, actually. I'll be right back." And Simmons stood up and wandered over to the car, which opened its passenger door for him.

"Red Alert wants to know when you're coming back," Bluestreak explained.

"In a while. I've got some news for you, Blue. See this cell phone?" He held up the little machine in question. "When you send a text message to it, you've got a limited space for the message. I think this phone's limit is six hundred characters, which should be more than enough."

Bluestreak didn't answer. Instead he seemed to sink into himself, no doubt knowing what was coming next.

"I just got seven texts in a row," Simmons said blandly, and at his lack of an accusation the gunner actually giggled.

"I'm sorry. It's just that Red was really upset when you didn't say when you'd be getting back, 'cause he wants to upload some sort of program to the security cameras and he didn't trust Jazz to do it. So he sent me to go find you but I thought you wouldn't want me doing something to scare the people here so I just sent a text message, like Bumblebee does with Sam. I didn't know there was a space limit or I would've just asked you to come over and explained it when you got here and..."

Simmons closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Somehow Bluestreak's namesake prattle, once so annoying, was now almost cathartic. He didn't notice when the young gunner suddenly stopped, but he did notice when someone rapped on the window. Tom stood outside the car, holding another report and scowling.

"Make it an hour," Simmons told the Autobot. "I'll call Red myself if it runs longer."

"All right," Bluestreak responded nervously, although whether he didn't want to talk with a stranger nearby or he didn't want to be the one to tell Red Alert to wait was unclear.

Simmons got out and watched the young 'bot drive away. He turned back to face Tom and nodded, then strode briskly back over to their table.

"What is this about borrowing an F-16?" The older man easily kept pace with him. Simmons snorted.

"I was wondering when you'd get to that one. Seems the twins have developed a way of fighting seekers in mid-air; they call it jet judo. Very stupid, very insane, highly suicidal. They borrowed a jet so they could practice."

"And someone let them take a jet?"

"Uh, no. Jazz hacked the air base's computer and did something, I don't know what. He's too smart to admit to having anything to do with it."

"Unlike the twins," Tom challenged. He was beginning to dislike those two 'bots, and he had yet to meet them. To be perfectly honest, he was surprised Simmons had such a congenial relationship with them. They- Sideswipe in specific- were far too similar to Simmons himself, especially during his less-responsible youth, for the man to be able to tolerate them well.

"Well, it was a little hard for them to claim they were uninvolved, seeing as to how one was actually riding the jet like a mechanical bull when I first got there."

"And when the jet was returned..." Tom opened the file folder attached to the report. It was about seventy pages long, so Simmons had never bothered to read it. The younger man eyed the folder's manila surface and wondered if he should have put forth the effort.

"It was left with an e-mail explaining that it was used as a prop at a child's ninth birthday party, and please excuse the dents, a pair of six-year-olds got into a fight over it." Tom closed the folder and studied his friend, who was trying to decide if he were annoyed or amused.

"I got Jazz to return it," he explained with a smile. "Probably should have thought better of it- he gets into almost as much trouble as the twins, he's just a lot better at getting himself out of it- but he was convenient."

"So, apparently, was the Black Hawk."

"The what?" Simmons sat up, slightly alarmed now. If that idiot saboteur had taken something else...

"A Black Hawk- the helicopter?" Tom glanced back at the file, as if he didn't already know exactly what it said, then closed it and rested his hands on its surface. "It went the same way as the jet. Borrowed by some big-shot general."

Simmons leaned against the table for several long minutes, trying to remember if he'd ever noticed a stray helicopter sitting around. Finally he shook his head.

"Did they return it?"

"Yes, and in better shape than the jet," The older man frowned. "You didn't know?"

"I suppose Chopper Capoeira is a little harder than jet judo," Simmons muttered. "I hope those blades ruined Sunny's precious paint job."

Tom groaned and rested his forehead momentarily against the heel of his hand. He didn't know how his friend, with his two-second temper and absolutely no patience for blatant stupidity, had managed to last this long. He was getting a headache just reading these reports.

Simmons returned to munching on fries, even though they were cold and gritty by now. He certainly wasn't going to explain how he was most likely to blame for this.

_If you feel the need to practice this jet judo again, make sure you don't get caught. And if you get caught, make sure I'm not the one who has to deal with the fallout._

Evidently they had taken him at his word. He hadn't known about the chopper. He doubted even Prowl knew about it, though Prime was questionable. The big guy knew a lot of what went on around him; he just showed an understandable reluctance to get involved.

"Who requisitioned hydrochloric acid and C4?" Tom demanded in alarm.

"Wheeljack," came the too-calm reply.

"Tell me someone said no," the older man pleaded.

"Ratchet did. Loudly. I'm surprised the people in Guatemala didn't hear him." Simmons had finished off his fries; he started folding and unfolding the cardboard container until it was disintegrating in his hands. "Actually, he was very understanding. Even gave 'Jack a time frame for when he was allowed access to stuff like that."

"And when will that be?" Tom asked dryly.

"After the universe explodes."

"Well, at least there's something I can agree with," the older man muttered to himself. He flipped to the next page and Simmons half-turned, watching the traffic go by on the highway just beyond. Idly he considered going and getting a kid's meal so he could have something to do.

There was the throaty sound of a performance engine- a soft purr in contrast to the twins' thunderous roars- and a sleek white-and-blue Bentley Continental slipped around the corner and into the nearest empty spot. The girl at the drive-thru window stared, no doubt wondering why such a slick car was at her McDonald's. Or maybe she was thinking that, if she worked for five years and spent her money on nothing but the absolute necessities, she might be able to afford to buy that car's spare tire.

"Another one?" Tom asked quietly. Simmons nodded.

"Yeah, but this is... unusual." He glanced over to his friend, saw the questioning look, and explained. "That's Mirage. He's the one who can turn invisible, and suffice to say that handy little talent of his has been getting quite a workout."

If Bluestreak was a puppy, Simmons thought to himself, then Mirage was a house cat still in the hide-under-the-couch-until-the-humans-go-away stage. From what he'd seen, he doubted the 'bot was going to get too much better than that.

"Go," Tom ordered. "I'll handle the rest of this. It's all pretty self-explanatory anyways."

Simmons nodded and stood, trying not to look at the huge pile of reports Tom had yet to go through. He strolled over to the spy, this time going around to the driver's side and leaning over to speak through the open window.

"Prowl requests your assistance in a certain matter," came the cool, regal voice.

"Not Red?" Simmons asked in surprise.

"Red Alert _is_ the matter."

The human considered this. Then he shook his head. "Maybe you'd better explain this," he said.

"I am not entirely sure what they did, but it appears the twins have done something to upset Red Alert. He's locked himself into the security room and refuses to come out."

"Jazz should be able to open the door," Simmons responded. "Or Ironhide, if it comes down to it."

"Optimus Prime would prefer such endeavors be saved until all others efforts have failed. Red Alert is quite hysterical. Shooting down the door would only make him worse."

"Ah." The human stood upright and sighed. "And they sent you to get me instead of calling for what reason?"

"I made the unfortunate mistake of walking into the room."

Well, that didn't answer the question, but Simmons knew from experience that that was the best he was going to get. He circled the Bentley and stopped by the passenger's door, which remained firmly locked.

"Uhh... I need in."

There was a long moment where nothing happened. Then the door unlocked and grudgingly opened. Simmons carefully slid in, settling himself onto the seat as though he were allergic to the leather upholstering it. It's a five-minute drive, he told himself. It won't be that bad. Except somehow Mirage, while still in car form, managed to handle him in a manner that made him feel like he was a snot-covered tissue.

This was going to be the longest five minutes of his entire life.


	12. Pimp My Ride, Please

Okay, folks. I thought my battling with Notepad was a sure sign of how much I loved y'all? No. This is. I am in Michigan, visiting my dad's family for Thanksgiving, and I typed this up on my laptop, which I brought with. Then I spent the past six hours going from one corner of the house to another, searching in vain for a wireless signal. My grandmother officially thinks I'm nuts, because I'll be sitting there playing on my laptop, then I'll randomly stand up and move three or four feet in one direction, then sit down and start over again. See, at home the wireless receiver is hooked up to the desktop, and my mother for some reason wouldn't let me pack it up and bring it with me. So I wandered this huge seven-bedroom-three-and-a-half-bathroom house like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

At this moment I'm on my grandfather's desktop computer, which has a dial-up connection that rivals the speed of continental drift. He's apparently convinced that I, the twenty-one-year-old who all but makes out with her laptop, will download some sort of mega-virus and crash his older-than-dirt computer, so normally he hovers over my shoulder and watches my every move. However, right now he's outside washing his car, so I can roam the internet without supervision. Don't ask how I transferred this chapter, you don't want to hear that story.

I suffered through that to get this uploaded and to say I wish y'all have a happy Turkey Day. Flame loves every last one of you, even if she sounds a little hassled or ignores you completely. That, and I wanted to get this up because the next chapter isn't quite halfway done and it's already as long as this one is. What's it about? -laughs evilly- We shall see.

Disclaimer: me no own.

---

Simmons had never been gladder to see anything quite as much as he was when the Autobot base appeared. The trip there, normally a relatively pain-free five minute ride, had been a lesson in awkward and interminable silence. Mirage had made not a single noise, even his high-performance engine almost preternaturally quiet, but the spy's tension had come across loud and clear in the very firm message of _do not want_.

Of course, once he'd all but dove out of the sleek car, he regretted it almost immediately. Apparently his showing up meant he was taking control of the situation, which was quite to the contrary of his true intention. He planned to see what had spazzed Red Alert out so badly, tell him to ignore the twins, then head to a quiet little bar he knew that was about five hours away from any giant alien robot and get himself royally plastered.

The twins were standing just outside the bay door they used as the main entrance. Sunstreaker looked as gloriously pissed as ever, which surprised no one. Sideswipe was leaning against him- carefully- and occasionally giving into a fit of giggles. As Simmons watched, Sunstreaker tired of this and gave his brother a healthy shove, which Sideswipe returned immediately. This would have continued, probably degrading into a quick scuffle topped with a steady trade of insults a pair of six-year-olds would have been proud of, except the twins' current babysitter lost what little patience he normally had. He shoved both of them in either direction and planted himself in between them, a brave move that would have bordered on suicidal if it hadn't been Ironhide.

Jazz was nearby, close enough to indicate that he was also under Ironhide's purview. He had his kid-in-a-candy-store face on as he watched the trio in front of him.

"Well," Simmons muttered under his breath, "at least someone is enjoying himself."

The saboteur noticed him and nodded cheerfully. "All him," he announced, indicating Sideswipe. "He did this one on his lonesome this time."

"This time." Simmons echoed pointedly. He was rewarded with a shrug. As it appeared that that was all Jazz had to say- a rarity, for he normally had a small fleet of quips and comments ready and waiting for the first imaginable sign of encouragement- the human turned to regard Ironhide. The big black 'bot looked as thoroughly unhappy as he possibly could, and idly Simmons wondered if this was some form of punishment for him as well as the twins.

"So tell me again why I'm here?" Simmons asked conversationally.

"Because if we can't get the door open, you're the only on who can fit through the ventilation shafts," Ironhide responded without missing a beat, his tone bland and matter-of-fact. Jazz made an interesting noise, as if he'd just swallowed a laugh, and Sideswipe once more started giggling. Simmons lifted an eyebrow at this.

"Not if your precious Primus himself came down and commanded me," he countered in the same tone.

He headed inside before that conversation could get ugly, ducking through the human-size door. He had to stop immediately, as Bluestreak was pacing along the hallway and paying very little attention to where his feet were going.

"This your first kid?" he asked wryly, and the gunner peered round to frown at him.

"What?"

"Never mind," Simmons waved it off. "I'm told I'm here to handle this new crisis. So where is Red Alert holed up?"

"Uh, this way," Bluestreak gestured for him to follow and began to wander down the hallway. Just as Simmons was about to point out that their size difference made it hard for him to keep up with a mech going at a steady trot, the young 'bot turned back to face him again. "It's not true, is it?"

"What's not true?" Simmons had a bad feeling about this. The bad feeling only grew when Bluestreak launched himself into a shaky, hurried version of his normal chatter.

"That you treat cars like that. I mean, I know your cars aren't alive and can't feel anything that's happening to them and that there are some humans who treat other humans worse. But still, if humans really do treat cars like that, it's kinda scary for us. I mean, what if one of us were to get captured and put through that? I know we're tougher than normal cars but I don't want to have to hurt another car and-"

"Okay!" Simmons barked loudly. "Emotional scarring. Got the picture. What, exactly, are we talking about?"

"Sideswipe found it on TV," Bluestreak started, then stopped when Simmons held up a restraining hand.

"Two problems with that statement," the human said dryly. "First of all, the 'on TV' part? Don't go there. There is no excuse for our television programming. On behalf of all humanity, I apologize for anything and everything you see on TV."

"All right," Bluestreak said slowly. "So… don't watch TV?"

"Watch as much as you want," Simmons answered dismissively. "Just don't take any of it seriously. And the second problem is the Sideswipe part. Clearly he deserves some Brownie points for this one." He snapped his fingers, as if he'd just had a brilliant thought. "I know! We'll put it towards his Survived a Week Locked in a Storage Closet Badge. That way he'll only be in there for six days."

"His what badge?" came the utterly confused reply. Simmons ignored this.

"That might be too generous," he continued to himself. "Maybe six days and twelve hours. I'll go tell Ironhide about it. I'm sure he'll agree it's a fitting reward." And he turned on his heel and headed back the way he'd come.

"Uh… you aren't actually going to lock Sideswipe in a storage closet?" Bluestreak asked worriedly, catching up in three easy strides.

"Of course not."

"Good," the gunner sighed in clear relief, relief that vanished at Simmons' next words.

"That's what Ironhide's for."

---

Twenty minutes later Simmons walked into the main room. Prime and Prowl were standing to either side of a large garage-type door. Ratchet was directly in front of it giving very painful-sounding threats if it wasn't opened immediately. Wheeljack stood beside Prowl, occasionally taking a half-step forward and trying to calm Ratchet down. These attempts failed miserably, but at least it gave the medic another target to focus on for a few minutes.

Prowl noticed the human first. The tactician started to say something but stopped when Ironhide, dented and scuffed and smugly triumphant, strolled in.

"What did you two do?" Prime asked, his tone suggesting he wasn't sure if he actually wanted to know.

"Nothing," Simmons replied, all innocence.

"Nothing permanent," Ironhide amended with a smirk. For a long moment Prime almost didn't accept that. He looked back and forth; he was well aware that anytime Simmons and Ironhide agreed, nothing good could possibly result. Then he shook his head and turned away.

Prowl, on the other hand, was less easy to convince. He directed his narrowed gaze onto the black pickup. "What, exactly, does 'nothing permanent' mean?"

"Means nobody's gonna come whining to Ratchet," Ironhide answered calmly. The medic in question had been watching the exchange; at this he snorted.

"Good enough for me," he said. He then stepped back, angling himself so he stood between Prowl and the two new arrivals and effectively ending the conversation. "You. Door. I don't care how, get it open."

Simmons, the 'you' in Ratchet's commands, nodded and sighed. "Yeah, I got a pretty good idea of what's going on here."

"Care to enlighten us?" Prowl asked icily.

"Sideswipe's been a busy boy," the human snarled. "While surfing the TV, he found a couple of… interesting shows. Demolition derbies. Monster truck rallies. A cop show about busting a chop shop. My own personal favorite, of course, is Pimp My Ride. Naturally, after having watched a few of each, he declared himself an expert on them and started telling stories."

"Some 'bots were smart enough to not take him seriously," Ironhide added darkly. "Others locked themselves into their security room and are refusing to come out because 'the humans might get them'."

"Is that really what this is all about?" Ratchet asked in disbelief. It was echoed across the board, Simmons saw. Even Wheeljack looked skeptical.

"The way he was telling it, it sounded like there were wild packs of humans roving the streets looking for cars to randomly destroy," the human explained. "Probably influenced by the Sopranos marathon he watched. That was all he did yesterday, you know. Watch Sopranos. Except, of course, for when Sex and the City came on."

With the exception of Ironhide, the 'bots were all staring at him in that odd manner that indicated that they were looking these shows up on the internet. After a moment Ratchet let out a bark of laughter.

"He watches those?" he asked.

"We seriously need to get that idiot a hobby," Simmons muttered. "One that doesn't involve the television or internet. Red!" He lifted a fist and beat on the door. "I have no idea why he took that moron seriously," he added to himself.

"I am not coming out," Red Alert said sharply, voice muffled by the door. "I am perfectly capable of doing my job from in here, thank you very much."

"What exactly do you think we've been telling him for an hour now?" an agitated Ratchet snapped. Simmons scowled at him.

"All right," he muttered. "I had a feeling he was gonna be difficult. Nothing we say is going to convince him to come out, he's gonna have to want to leave. Fortunately, we're prepared for this. All we need is for you guys to play along." He glanced at Prime, then Prowl.

"Is anyone going to get hurt?" Prime asked before Prowl could stamp a veto on the idea based solely on general principle.

"No."

"Will it work?" the Autobot leader asked next, again interrupting his second-in-command.

"Almost certainly."

Prime considered this for only a moment. Then he nodded once and turned to regard his tactician. "That reminds me. Prowl, I have something you need to see."

"What?" Prowl glanced at his leader in confusion. "Where?"

"Not in here," came the reply as the bigger 'bot placed a hand on his shoulder and half pushed, half guided him out. Simmons watched them leave. Then he glanced at Wheeljack and Ratchet, who snorted.

"Unlike those two, I feel no moral obligation to prevent blatant rule-breaking," the medic drawled. "Feel free to proceed."

"Remember, one at a time," Simmons said to Ironhide, who grumbled at the reminder. For a moment nothing happened. Then from behind the closed door came a fuzzy-sounding _pop_, followed by the familiar hiss of static. Red Alert gave a sharp exclamation in Cybertronian.

"What's wrong, Red?" Simmons asked conversationally. The security director didn't respond for several moments. When he did, he sounded confused.

"One of my cameras went out."

"Is that so?" The human glanced at Ironhide and smiled tightly. Before he could say anything else the popping noise came once more. Again the 'bot on the other side of the door barked out what sounded suspiciously like a curse.

"How are you doing this?" he demanded.

"I'm not doing anything," Simmons answered in all honesty. He shot Ironhide another look and was rewarded with third camera going out almost instantly.

Red Alert was working himself into quite a fit. He was muttering to himself and, judging from the sounds, darting around the small room as he tried to figure out what was going on. His hysteria only increased when four more cameras went off-line in rapid succession.

"One at a time!" Simmons hissed at Ironhide. "Does 'one at a time' sound like 'four at once'? No!"

"I demand to know how you're doing this!" Red Alert barked shrilly. "This is a clear violation of the security code and I will not tolerate it. If you do not stop at once I shall-"

"Do what? Yell at us through the door?" Simmons cut in. "Very impressive, Red. Striking terror into the sparks of troublemakers everywhere."

"Prime!" the 'bot wailed.

"He left," Ironhide responded calmly. "Prowl too."

"You know," Simmons said to Ironhide as if carrying on a conversation began earlier, "I did hear Bluestreak say something about target practice."

"Did you now?" the black 'bot rumbled in amusement. The scuffling and muttering beyond the door stopped dead. Another camera went out and Simmons could almost hear Red Alert flinch.

"Bluestreak is doing what?" Now the security director sounded calm, almost eerily so.

"He's shooting out the cameras," Simmons answered. "If you want to protect them, you'll have to come out and stop him yourself."

Two more cameras kicked it in the silence that followed. The human found himself wondering how many more were left. Some were on the roof, or tucked into the wall, or very low to the ground. All places hard for a mech to reach, even a sharpshooter like Bluestreak.

Then the door slid open and Red Alert came striding out. He looked as fierce and pissed as Sunstreaker had the time Sideswipe had used bleach to write 'my name is Sunny' on his hood. Ironhide barely waited until he was in the hallway before once again opening his comm. line to Bluestreak. This time, he spoke out loud.

"Run, kid," he advised.

"Wait a moment," Simmons ordered uneasily. "That's the hallway… Sideswipe!" He shot a quick look at Ironhide, who groaned.

"Of course," the 'bot muttered. He sprinted into the hallway, heading after Red Alert. "Don't-!"

There was a loud crashing noise and a yelp of surprise. Then Sideswipe chortled menacingly.

"I'm free!" he crowed. He continued his maniac laughter as he dashed up the hallway, somehow slipping past Ironhide. He charged past the open doorway, appearing as nothing more than a red blur, leaving a trail of cackles as he went.

"Do I want to know?" Wheeljack asked in the silence that followed.

"No." Simmons stated flatly. Ratchet shook his head and started out into the hallway.

"I'll be in my office if anyone needs me, and no one should," he said, sounding as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. From another part of the building, Simmons could hear Red Alert beginning to harangue either Prime or Prowl for something. He rubbed at his temples and groaned tiredly, muttering under his breath as he walked out.

"Thus ending yet another day in paradise."


	13. Enter Grimlock

Story time! Oh yes, the news is still trickling in from the Michigan front, kiddies. There's my laptop power cord's death-by-puppy story- aka the 'I am never babysitting for my aunt again or I will lock her younger child in the washing machine' saga. There's the oldie-but-goodie: the Mazda Miata that is worshipped by my grandfather like some religious artifact. There's the argument with my grandfather that resulted in no one in the family being allowed to drive except him. And then there's the 'homigawd itsagirl' story. I shall retell the last.

My cousin is four months younger than myself. He goes to big university in Michigan, and- he is extraordinarily proud of this, even though to me it is just more proof that most males are idiots- he got into a fraternity. Now, he and I saw each other a lot growing up, because my family traveled a lot and my father would often bring my cousin with, so we were basically siblings. I honestly think we both simply forgot that I'm female. So when he invited me in to see his new Xbox 360 and perhaps lose in a most spectacular fashion in a few rounds of Halo, I agreed.

I'm not a girly girl. I have never been bothered by messes, or unidentifiable smells, or crude jokes. Yet when I walked into that dorm some part of me screamed and died. And as I was standing there staring and wondering if that pizza on the table had been ordered in this millennium, I hear someone behind me say "homigawd itsagirl!" And I turn around to see a guy wearing a pillowcase. I kid you not. Don't ask how he pulled this off, because he didn't; suffice to say he probably was feeling a little drafty.

In the end I spent five hours there. For three of them I was in charge of the cleaning crew, which consisted of any underclassmen who didn't run away fast enough. The older boys naturally thought I was some sort of gift from God, whereas the freshmen and my cousin are now all of the opinion that I am the female reincarnation of Napoleon. In the end it all worked out: the dorm is now fit for human habitation, I got to steal a kiss from a cute junior, and Pillowcase Boy will never again wander around in anything less than three layers of clothing.

In regards to the story: yes. Dinobots. Because they're kick-ass, that's why. Because we're all Grimlock fangirls at heart, even those of us who don't happen to be female. And most of all, because I could.

Disclaimer: me no own transformers or jurassic park.

---

"This is totally awesome! You gotta come see this!"

This was the first hint. Simmons, being the intelligent person he was, knew that when Sam was too worked up to properly explained what he was so excited about, it could not possibly be a good thing. Say what you will about that boy; he was never at a loss for words. So when Simmons asked what 'this' is, and received the response of 'just come see it', he knew he was going to regret the entire day.

The next hint was the parade of 'bots that came with- Prime, Ironhide, the twins, and even Ratchet. And none of them carried any humans, electing to have Jazz play escort of the day. He'd offered to pick up Lennox but the captain had turned him down, saying he preferred to remain at home. This was hint number three.

Hint number four came, in oh-so-subtle a manner, when they drove past the Universal Studios parking lot and straight into the park itself. Simmons was wondering why they felt the need for such a display of force when they were meeting up with their own allies when he heard it. Shrieking and ripping and crashing and thudding, and when Jazz pointed himself to the broad overdone gates to the Jurassic Park ride, something roared.

It sounded like the roar of the T-Rex from the movie, sure. But it lacked the tinny quality of a recording, and it had the same static-edged mechanical feel to it that all the 'bots spoke with. And unless Simmons was very much mistaken, the ground was shaking.

"What is that?" he asked, trying for calm and almost managing not-quite-hysterical.

"Ahh, that was prob'ly Grimlock. Optimus, you might wanna..." And as the saboteur drifted back, Prime moved forward until he was leading this odd mix of vehicles. He nudged the gates open and drove forward.

Bumblebee was already there, and Simmons gaped openly at the scout. His normally pristine bodywork was marred by countless dents and scratches, smudged with mud and crushed plants, even charred in places. Sam was sitting on the scout's hood, leaning forward so he could peer around the curve in the road and watch whatever was happening ahead.

"You two all right?" Jazz asked, and Sam snapped upright.

"Yeah," the teen said, voice sounding a little hoarse. He'd been doing a lot of yelling, Simmons figured. "Yeah, we're fine. It's just that, he's a little pissed." At 'he' the boy gestured towards whatever he'd been watching. The roar came again, much louder this time, and Sam winced. "He's having some problems," he finished.

The other three fanned out behind them, blocking off the exit, while Ratchet transformed and started running a few scans on Bumblebee. Prime pulled forward, stopping just shy of rounding the bend in the road, Jazz still beside him.

"Ya ready for this?" the smaller 'bot asked. "You know what he's like, what he's gonna do."

"I have been dealing with Grimlock for a long time, Jazz," Prime answered, sounding both amused and resigned. "I know what to do with him." And they slowly, carefully, eased around the corner.

At first Simmons saw nothing wrong with the scenario ahead. There was a T-Rex in it, sure, but they were in the Jurassic Park theme ride, so such things were to be expected. Then he took a closer look.

The T-Rex was moving far too easily to be animatronics; it was well-balanced, fast, and confident in its movements. It was also a stainless steel color, not covered with the brown leather-like skin. In fact, the whole thing looked as though it had been skinned alive and dipped in liquid silver- he could clearly see the defining lines of ribs on its torso, the jagged pattern of vertebrae along its back, the outline of the bones in its legs. It was completely fleshed out; it merely looked as though its skeleton were on the outside instead of in.

It was standing on the road, twisting and pulling and bursting randomly into full gallop for approximately one and a half steps before halting. At first Simmons couldn't figure out what it was doing. Then he saw the various cables and false vines weaving around in the thing's armor.

"He transformed an' got it all twisted up under his armor," Jazz muttered.

"Not the brightest crayon, huh?" Simmons murmured.

"Grimlock? Sure, he's no genius, but don't let him fool you; he's plenty smart. Smart enough to know when to hide it."

The T-Rex roared once more, this time in frustration. The cables tangled around his body hadn't stood a chance, not with his charging around and his gnawing and clawing. However, several cables had wrapped themselves around his left ankle, and he was having serious trouble with them. He couldn't balance well enough to bring up his other foot, his stunted arms were useless, and his head was so big if he tried to bring it down to bite at the cables he'd overbalance and fall. The cables were strong and numerous enough that he couldn't kick out with the force necessary to tear them off their mooring, and he clearly didn't want to risk transforming.

Finally Grimlock slowed, vents cycling like a bellows as he stood still. He lifted his head high and turned, studying the park beyond him, and Simmons marveled at the image he presented. If not for the metallic quality to his hide, he could easily pass for a living T-Rex. He certainly looked intimidating enough to fit the part.

"Wow," Simmons said finally, and Jazz laughed. Quietly.

"Yeah, he's somethin', ain't he? Scares th' 'cons like nothin' else, seein' him chargin' at them. Like watchin' th' Red Sea part, with everyone just tryin' to get out of his way."

Grimlock snorted and turned, yanking on his left foot and tugging the cables into the open. He dipped down and seized them in his jaws, straightening with a snap and wrenching his head around. The cables groaned, then issued sharp _twangs_ as they started snapping. One whipped around and smacked Grimlock just bellow his optic. He jerked away in surprise, trying to step back with his left foot, only to find that his grip on the cables severely limited his already shortened stride. The claws on his foot groped madly, trying to find the ground that was about three feet below. The rex opened his mouth and released the cables, and his foot rocketed down.

Simmons wasn't exactly sure how he managed it, but at that moment Grimlock snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory. One moment he was standing on both feet, unsteadily, but still standing. The next he hit the ground, the impact rattling the scenery around him and sending something within the trees crashing to the ground. He rolled over so he was on his stomach, legs splayed wide, and dipped his head again to yank at the cables.

The rex tucked his feet under him once the last cable had let go and was half-standing when he froze, head tilted slightly to one side. Slowly he turned, regarding them with one ice-blue optic.

"This is not gonna end well," Jazz muttered. Then he was backing up rapidly, tires squealing haphazardly on the road, and Prime was transforming as Grimlock roared and lunged to his feet as though he'd been shot out of a cannon. He consumed the ground between them in six strides, mouth open, bearing down on them like some sort of alien-robot-meets-prehistoric-monster freight train, and Simmons suddenly had a lot of sympathy for the characters in this movie.

Then Prime was there, and Simmons realized that the big 'bot had been Grimlock's target all along. The massive jaws crashed, hitting air once, wrapping around Prime's forearm the second as Optimus brought his arm up to prevent Grimlock's reaching something more important. Sharp teeth squealed across armor, leaving long shallow scratches. A few caught on the edge of the armor plating and started pulling the edge up.

Prime tolerated being a chew toy for approximately three seconds. Then he twisted his captured arm, catching Grimlock by the neck, and brought his free hand up. He half-turned, got a good grip on the back of the dino's neck, and flipped him. Grimlock was torn away from Prime's arm with the chilling sound of ripping metal. He went feet-over-head and crashed into the ground spine-first, landing where he had been standing when Simmons had first seen him. The rex rolled over immediately, tucking his feet under him and once more rising to his full height, but this time he kept his distance.

"What was that?" Simmons asked in a tone that was surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances.

"Grimlock don't like takin' orders from anyone," Jazz explained quietly. "So every now an' then he reminds us how badass he is. He's not as bad as he used to be, though. Once upon a time he would've actually tried t' hurt Prime."

"Oh, is that so? Well, then, I'm glad he's never had the occasion to say 'hi' to me if that's how he does it. Please tell me I'm not the only one who's got a problem with an Autobot attacking Prime!"

"It's Grimlock," came the reply, as if that explained all. "That's just what he does. It's only once or twice, then he'll knock it off."

"Great." Simmons rubbed at his face with his hands and studied the rex. He tried to imagine Grimlock transformed and came up with something easily Prime's size.

From somewhere above them came an odd chittering noise. A winged dinosaur- he had no clue what its name was- flew overhead and chittered again, then started jabbering away in Cybertronian. It was bigger than the flyers in the movie and it had the same silver-skinned, exoskeletal-design as Grimlock. The rex tilted his head to watch, then snorted and turned to head deeper into the park. He paused for a moment to study Prime, snorted again, and charged off down the road. The flyer followed.

"There's two of them?" Simmons asked incredulously. Jazz laughed.

"There's five of them," the saboteur corrected. "An' Grimmy ain't th' biggest of 'em, either. That honor goes to Sludge."

"……Sludge."

"Don't look at me, I didn't name 'em."

"Right. And why is he a T-Rex?"

"Who, Grimlock?" Jazz asked in confusion. "I can't really picture him bein' anythin' less… well, fierce. I mean, he ain't th' peaceful type. None of 'em are, but him least of all."

Simmons groaned and dragged a hand through his hair, then glanced to his left as the passenger door swung open. Sam slung himself in, dropping into the seat and beaming excitedly at his fellow human.

"Isn't he just awesome?" the boy gushed, and Simmons could feel every second of the twenty-odd years that separated them in age.

"The giant metal rex who randomly attacks his commander for the hell of it? The one who has a temper almost as bad as Sunny's? The one who apparently has four minions, of which at least one is probably big enough to do a decent Godzilla impersonation? Is he who you're talking about?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, good mood not in the remotest bit affected by Simmons' summary.

"Oh, he's just fabulous," the older man drawled humorlessly. "Can't wait to take him home and introduce him to the folks. Am I the only one who sees a problem with the fact that these things are _dinosaurs_?!"

"Well, what do you want from 'em?" Jazz countered. "They're beast transformers, Simmons. They can't do vehicle modes like th' rest of us."

"Why not?" Sam asked curiously, and the saboteur gave a noise that could best be described as a verbal shrug.

"Just aren't designed for it, th' same way I'm not designed for a beast mode like theirs. It like th' difference between a Chihuahua and a pit bull. Th' little one makes for a poor guard dog, but I'd love t' se someone tryin' to haul a pit bull around in their purse."

"Pit bulls and Chihuahuas," Simmons mused. "That would make you the little yappy dog, wouldn't it?"

Sam started to snicker, no doubt assailed by mental images. Jazz barked out a laugh. "Yeah, I walked into that one," he allowed. "But th' point is, they can't take vehicle forms. An' there aren't too many beast form options for somethin' as big as them."

"They could have stopped by a zoo," Sam put in.

"Couldn't've scanned anythin'. They needed mechanical animals t' scan. Besides, would it really have been any better to have a bunch of lions and elephants stompin' around?"

"No," Simmons drawled. "If we're gonna hang signs around their necks that say 'I'm actually a giant alien robot', we might as well make it so blindingly obvious that the sign isn't necessary."

"In for a penny, right?" the teen asked cheerfully, and Simmons sighed tiredly.

"Right. Now, why are we just sitting here?"

"Waitin' for Grimlock t' come back," Jazz answered calmly. The two humans exchanged confused looks.

"He just left," Sam reminded the 'bot.

"I know. It's best to let him handle his own team, without anyone else hangin' around."

"Wonderful," Simmons muttered. He opened the door and started to step out, nearly getting his leg snapped off when Jazz swung the door shut again.

"What are you doing?" Sam hissed in alarm. The older man snorted.

"In case Grimlock proves to be a less-than-stellar leader, and I'm getting the impression that he just might fall short there, I'd rather not be sitting in a car when the other four dino-robots decide to attack. I prefer to scream and faint without an audience, thank you."

"Not th' smartest move, dude," Jazz cautioned. Simmons scowled at the steering wheel.

"This is implying to me that these 'bots are dangerous and uncontrollable. Are they?"

To his credit, Jazz didn't immediately jump to his fellow Autobots' defense. He actually considered the question for a few moments. "What happens if I say yes?"

"If there's even a slight chance they might hurt a human, for whatever reason, they can't stay here. At all. No-" here Simmons cut off Sam's protestations. "No compromising, no second chances. It's my job to protect people from these 'bots, and these five spell trouble to me."

"I ain't gonna lie," Jazz said slowly. "They're dangerous, sure. But they'll do what you tell 'em if you phrase it right. Besides, you got th' kinda attitude Grimlock respects. They'll be fine."

"Oh really?" Simmons glanced at Sam, then back at the steering wheel with a sharp grin. "And what kind of attitude is that?"

"Th' one that lets you stare down any 'bot, even though you're a fraction our size an' highly squishable.

"Charming," the former agent drawled. He once more pushed the door open, and this time Jazz let him get out. With a tired sigh the man pulled his cell phone out and flipped it open. He watched the fake jungle as he dialed the number; he thought he'd heard something stomping around. After a moment he snorted.

"No, there's nothing out there," he growled under his breath. "Just the five metal dinosaurs."

Prime still stood in the clearing ahead, arms folded over his chest as he watched both the road Grimlock had gone down and the quaint little human talking to itself. Simmons unconsciously relaxed when the big 'bot said nothing. If there was any danger, Prime would have said something. Then again, if there had been any chance of danger he probably would've made Jazz wait by the park entrance. Assuming he allowed the small saboteur to come at all.

"What the hell…? Reggie?"

"Good morning, Tom," Simmons chirped, even though he felt far from cheerful. If there was one thing in the world Tom Banachek hated the most, it was people who managed to sound happy and peppy and disgustingly awake while he was in the stage of awakening where he was often mistaken for a zombie. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I get you up?"

"It's three seventeen in the morning, you bastard," came the heartfelt reply. "What the hell do you think?"

"I think I gave up anything resembling normal hours when I took this job. I also think it's time for you to get out of bed and do your job."

"Ugh, fine. What do you want?" Tom still sounded as though Simmons had requested he sell his vital organs on eBay, but at least he wasn't hanging up.

"I need a way to transport five large 'bots from the Universal Studios Park to the base."

"You know, the later in the night you call me, the weirder your requests get," the other man grumbled. "How big?"

Simmons once more pictured Grimlock transformed. Then he tried it with the flying one as well. After a moment he laughed hollowly and leaned against Jazz's hood. "Remember Prime?"

"Yes?" The response was half-questioning in its wariness.

"Good. Think bigger."

"Dear God," Tom said simply, and Simmons laughed again.

"Yeah. And they're not the friendliest lot. Also, we need to be gone by the time the park opens."

"No pressure, though, right?" the other man muttered. "What time does the park open?"

Simmons reached around and tapped a finger on Jazz's hood. The saboteur didn't even pretend to have not been listening in. "Ten a.m.," he offered, and the human relayed the information.

"Ten, huh?" Tom gave an audible yawn and mumbled something about coffee. "How about we just close down some back roads and call it a day?"

"That might work," Simmons allowed. It was certainly better than trying to stuff Grimlock in the back of a U-Haul. "But we need to make sure there's no reporters, no traffic cameras, nothing. We don't want a single picture of these guys anywhere."

"Why not? Are their alternate forms so bad? And what is that noise?"

'That noise' was the sound of Grimlock returning, leading a small parade of silver dinosaurs behind him. Even Simmons' dino-deprived brain could provide the names for them- triceratops, stegosaurus, and brontosaurus. The winged one flew circled overhead, landing gracefully on the railing and tucking his wings close around himself.

"Yeah, they're that bad," Simmons sighed as he considered the five of them. At least no one was attacking anyone this time. "You didn't ask the obvious question."

"The obvious question. Would that be, 'what are you doing in the park?'"

"That would be it." Simmons was eyeing Grimlock carefully now. When he'd started talking the rex had turned its head to study him. "Uh, I gotta go." He hung up, snapping the phone shut before Tom could protest.

Grimlock took a single step forward, watching Prime for any response. When he received no immediate reaction he took two more steps and dipped his massive head down, close enough that Simmons could reach out and touch him. It was only when the human nearly fell that he realized that Jazz was backing away. He pulled himself upright and stared into that cool blue optic. The rex snorted and turned its head again. Very gently, it nudged him with its nose. Simmons took a half-step back to brace himself and scowled at the blunt muzzle.

The 'bot straightened himself and turned to regard Prime. "What this?" he growled, one tiny claw waving towards the human. Simmons marveled that the thing even knew how to speak, even if it was caveman-style. Then he recalled what Jazz had said about Grimlock's intellectual level and decided to reserve judgment.

"That is a human," Prime explained. "The dominant species on this planet. They're organic and very fragile, so you need to be careful with them."

One of the other 'bots snorted, making clear its bleak opinion of organic fragility. Grimlock made a rumbling noise and looked back at Simmons.

"Hyoo-man," he repeated. "Puny little hyoo-man. What you think of Grimlock, hyoo-man?"

"I think you've never had someone call you a puny little anything, so you have no idea how annoying it is," Simmons said before he could stop himself. Prime shifted, looking as though he were preparing himself to lunge in between the human and the rex, which was about as un-reassuring a thing as Simmons had ever seen. Grimlock, however, merely rumbled again. If anything, the human's sauce seemed to amuse him.

"Brave little human," he said, half to himself.

"Simmons," the brave little human in question corrected. At the curious look he received, he continued. "My name is Simmons. Well, part of it, anyways. Oh lookie here, someone decided to join us."

Sam slid to a halt near Simmons and stared up at the 'bot in front of them. Grimlock returned the stare wordlessly, and the older human got the feeling that they were both being measured and judged. The flyer ducked its sharp head and hissed, flaring its wings out a little. The other three maintained their watchful silence. Simmons wondered if they followed Grimlock's lead on how he treated others, or if their personalities were simply overwhelmed by their leader's sheer dominating presence.

"Who you, hyoo-man?" the rex thundered, once more placing an emphasis on the first syllable of the word 'human'. Sam swallowed noticeably, but held his ground.

"Sam," he said, glancing at Prime quickly. The red-and-blue 'bot still wasn't showing any sign of intervention. Clearly he intended to let the humans and the newcomers sound each other out on their own terms.

"Me Grimlock!" The words were both proud statement and challenge. The rex jerked his head high and stared down at them in a you-may-bow-now sort of way. "Me leader of them." Here he waved his claw towards the other four dinosaurs, pointing each one out in turn as he introduced them. Jazz apparently hadn't been joking about Sludge. Twice Simmons opened his mouth to comment. Twice he thought better of it and snapped it shut again.

"So are you guys… what? Dinobots?" Sam asked when the introductions were done. Grimlock rumbled again.

"Di-no-bots," he echoed slowly. He glanced briefly at the flyer- Swoop- the only one of his team he could see without turning around completely. "What di-no-bots mean?"

"Uh, well," Sam's voice cracked and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Well, you're Autobots, right? And you're dinosaurs. So… Dinobots."

The rex considered this for a moment. Then he turned and headed back towards the other four, who were several paces behind him. Prime, his back almost against the wall, had to duck in order to avoid getting walloped across the chest by Grimlock's flagpole-stiff tail. The 'bots jabbered in Cybertronian for a minute with Grimlock doing most of the talking by far. The flyer chipped in once or twice, and the triceratops gave an angry-sounding protest, but the rex snorted and stepped away dismissively. His face was already affixed into a permanent toothy grin, but it seemed to have grown during the short debate.

"Me Grimlock like," he said to Sam. He lifted his head and addresses the rest of the world with his next statement. "Me Grimlock leader of Dinobots!"

"Congratulations," Simmons muttered to the teen. "You've made a new friend."

"Yeah," Sam replied shakily. "Great. Just what I always wanted. My very own T-Rex."

"Hey, beats the pants off the Chihuahua," the older man pointed out. Before Sam could rise to the defense of his dog, Simmons' cell phone rang.

"Alright, I got you what you need," Tom said without preamble. "I'm sending a map of the closed roads to your e-mail. Have one of the 'bots get it."

"We still have to worry about cameras," Simmons reminded him. "We're talking serious potential for public panic here."

"I suggest you leave the park now. That way you'll get back to base before dawn. Other than that, the best we can do is confiscate all cameras, film, and memory cards from anyone playing tourist."

"The old 'classified material' gig, huh?" Simmons rubbed at his forehead. It was a bad plan at best, but it was all they had.

"Why him Simmons talk to himself?" Grimlock sounded very, very close. The human glanced over and nearly jumped out of his skin. The rex was standing about ten feet away, head as close to the pavement as he could get it without tipping over. If he so desired, Simmons could reach out and touch the 'bot's nose.

"What was that?" Tom asked warily.

"That was Grimlock," Simmons answered. Then he held his cell phone up for easier viewing. "Cell phone. It lets me call other people wherever I go. Like a comm. line. We need to get moving, Prime. I've got roads closed for the- the Dinobots," he grimaced but knew better than to comment, "but we need to be back at base before sunrise. Otherwise we might as well hang a sign over their heads saying 'breaking story of the century here'."

Prime nodded and glanced at Grimlock. The rex turned to speak to his team, again forcing Prime to duck his arcing tail. Simmons wandered over to Jazz and gratefully slid into the driver's seat. He told the saboteur about where to find the map and sighed tiredly as the 'bot hashed out the plan with Prime.

Ten minutes later they were on the road, Jazz leading a parade that was even more bizarre than the one they'd come in with. Grimlock lead his Dinobots in silence- in fact, if it wasn't for the occasional glimpse of a street light glittering off silver hides, Simmons wouldn't know he was there. Sam, having elected to ride with Jazz in order to avoid the lecture Ratchet was giving Bumblebee, watched the mirrors closely. He seemed to be unnaturally excited about this whole affair.

"Do you think they weigh enough to leave footprints in the road?" the teen asked, and Simmons groaned.

"Don't," the older man ordered. "Just… don't."

After ten more minutes of silence, Sam tried again. "How much longer are we gonna be able to keep this whole thing under wraps?"

"Not long," Simmons answered grimly. "Especially not at this rate."

"For what it's worth, they're 'bout as bad as it gets," Jazz offered. Instead of taking the comfort intended, Simmons lifted his head and stared at the steering wheel in horror.

"'About' as bad?" he echoed hoarsely. "What do you mean, _about_ as bad?!"

"Okay, alright! They _are_ as bad as it gets! Bad Jazz. Bad." The 'bot said the last bit to himself. He kept muttering, but whatever else he said was too quiet for the humans to hear.

"You're not going to quit again, are you?" Sam asked warily.

"That would be like avoiding being in a high-speed car crash by throwing myself out of the car right before impact," the older man grumbled. "Kind of pointless. Besides, if and when the shit does hit the fan, you're all gonna need someone like me around. Help keep the government from walking all over you."

Silence descended again. Then Sam stirred once more. "Uhh… thanks," he said softly. Simmons shrugged.

"Oh no," Jazz groaned suddenly. "He didn't."

"Who didn't what?" the teen asked curiously.

"Sideswipe did something stupid," Simmons answered with certainty born of experience.

"He told th' Dinobots about football," Jazz said worriedly. "Now Grimlock's challengin' Prime to a game."

All three considered this. Simmons spoke first. "Twenty bucks on the rex."

"Against Prime? You're on." Sam shot back confidently.

"I can see we're real worried," the saboteur drawled. "I'll be sure t' tell Prime 'bout your faith in him, Reggie."

"Where are they going to find a football that big?" the teen wondered aloud. Simmons tried to picture how big such a ball would need to be and shook his head.

"Wheeljack," Jazz answered simply.

"Let me know when this happens. I want to bring a camera." Sam grinned and glanced at Simmons. "We're horrible people, aren't we?"

"You get used to it," the older man replied steadily.

They returned to planning the football game, conveniently ignoring the fact that the players were unaware of this, and Simmons felt himself relax. Maybe the Dinobots wouldn't be so bad. After all, he'd gotten used to the twins and Red Alert. Grimlock and his fierce predatory behavior was only the next new challenge. The human smiled to himself at the thought.

_Bring it on._

--

a/n: yes, it's long. Why? Because I lurvs all you people for sticking around with this (occasionally amusing) mess, and for waiting for this chapter for so long. Family kills my brains.

Till next time, then.


	14. The Danger of Dinobots

Hello, children. Today's topic of discussion is my cousins. First of all, I am far too well adjusted to thinking of my mother's side of the family as weird. There's a reason for this, most of which being far too complicated to go into. However, I have to give props to my dad's family, especially the middle sister. She's the mother of the boy I wrote of previously, mister I-am-in-a-fraternity-and-that-makes-me-special. She's also the mother of my oldest cousin, who got married a few years ago in the coolest wedding I've ever seen (think Hawaiian shirts, Star Wars theme music, a Goth minister, the best man dancing with a seven-foot-tall inflatable cactus, and the whole thing nearly being called off because my cousin and his fiancée, who lived in an apartment with a no-pets rule, couldn't find their cat and thought the landlord tossed it onto the street).

But the cousin I connected with best is Becca, the twelve-year-old daughter of my dad's youngest sister. She was the only one who cottoned on to my obsession to Transformers, not that I was exactly subtle about it. At twelve, she considers herself all grown up, and being the closest thing to a fellow twelve-year-old girl in the house, she and I clicked. I even let her fool around with my laptop, an experience in which I learned the downside of this site's three-day log-on feature. She came up to me one evening and informed me that she'd read my TF stories and thought they were both really good. I freaked out and combed through both, searching for even the smallest non-child-friendly thing, and panicking over how I would explain anything she might say to her parents. Thankfully, either everything was tame enough or she knew better than to say anything.

I'm sorry this chapter took so long, but family drains my creativity away to nothing. And now, since I got so many reviews, I will respond to them here.

Most people: Ha! I'll repeat that: ha! There is no way I'm writing that football game. You want a good Dinobots-versus-suckers football fic, go read Blue 42 by the Starhorse. It's one of the best fics I've ever read.

Chimera Dragonfang: Run off and giggle as much as you want, darling. I'm full of odd little one-liners like that.

Jason M. Lee: Maybe he did switch. It is Jazz, after all. –totally pretending she meant to write that- There's always something in every chapter, isn't there? Bonus points to you for catching all of them.

And StarSwoop? This one is thanks to you.

disclaimer: me no own.

--

"Ow."

Simmons tried to open his eyes but stopped when the pain in his head tripled. He groaned and brought his hand up slowly, reaching around to touch his head, then let it flop to the ground when his gentle probing only produced more pain. Just lying there sounded good, he decided. The concrete was nice and cool and no longer trying to kill him.

"Oh wait, I think he's coming around." The voice sounded distant, as though it were coming through a long tunnel. "Yeah, he's awake. I'll call you back." Pause. "No, nothing to worry about. We have Ratchet here, remember? He'll be fine." Pause again. The voice was getting clearer. He could now identify the speaker, one Mikaela Banes. "I don't know, Captain, he's still just laying there. I'll call you back when I know how he's doing. Yeah, we will. Bye."

He heard the unmistakable sound of a cell phone clicking shut, then something loomed over him. Two somethings, really, and one of them was a hell of a lot better at looming than the other. He could see them best if he squinted.

"Go away," he ordered, annoyed when his command came out as a harsh whisper.

"No," the second shape answered. "You have suffered cranial damage from the impact. It could be serious. According to your American Medical Association, anytime a human suffers from such trauma, they should be monitored closely for several hours. Otherwise there could be brain swelling or blood leaking. Occasionally such issues take several hours to arise."

"First of all, thanks for the lovely thoughts," Simmons ground out, grateful for his voice's gaining strength. "Second, they're not my AMA. And third, you scanned me again, didn't you? What did we say about scanning people without their permission?"

"Only if they're injured or potentially non-friendly. You were unconscious for three minutes, which makes you injured." Ratchet took a step away and Simmons bit back a whimper as the resulting tremors jarred his head. He felt like someone was taking ice picks to his temples.

"And you're certainly not friendly," Mikaela added under her breath.

"Hey, I talked Grimlock out of ripping off Prowl's head when he said no to the football match, didn't I?" It was hurting less now; he could even sit up a little. Once more he felt the back of his head, finding a nice lump that would no doubt swell to softball-size. At least there was no blood.

"By telling him that if he did that, it'd be putting Prowl out of his misery too soon," the girl scoffed. "And telling him to annoy Prowl instead, because it'd last longer and he'd suffer more."

"Well, sweetheart, I'd love to see you talk down a giant metal rex intent on murder. Until you do, you've got no right to complain about my methods."

"He still calls me 'little hyoo-man'," Mikaela grumbled. Simmons smiled to himself. One thing was for sure: Grimlock was certainly a good deal more complex than the humans had originally thought. So were his teammates, although their individual personalities tended to be overwhelmed whenever Grimlock was around. One-on-one, however, all five Dinobots were interesting. Simmons was especially fascinated by one of their number whose interruption had resulted with his head impacting the floor.

"Where is Swoop?" he asked carefully.

"You're not allowed to yell at him," the teen answered immediately. The older man laughed, stopping quickly because it hurt.

"Oh yeah," he muttered. "I'm gonna yell at the thirty-foot pteranadon, and he's gonna sit there and take it. Just like scolding a dog. C'mon, kid, he's not Bluestreak."

Mikaela's eyes went wide, then narrowed dangerously. "You'd better be nice to Bluestreak," she warned.

"I am nice to Bluestreak," Simmons shot back. "I'm very nice to Bluestreak. In fact, he's the only one here I like, so I _have_ to be nice to him."

"Oh, that's charming," the girl spat. She stood up and stormed away, muttering about pig-headed men as she went, sounding as if being male was the worst insult she could imagine. Ratchet carefully shifted his weight, moving one of his feet out her path, and watched her leave. Had there been a human-sized door, she would have slammed it.

After a moment, the medic slid the human a dark look. "And you want to talk to Swoop? He may be the most laid-back of the Dinobots, but he still has a temper, and in your current mood you're begging to get stepped on."

"Then put me on that," Simmons answered, jabbing a finger towards what the medic called a 'repair berth' but was actually best described as 'big honkin' table'. For a moment Ratchet looked as though he dearly wanted to say no. Then he seemed to realize that putting an injured human on a fifteen-foot-tall table ensured said human would remain there. Clearly recognizing this as an easy way to keep track of his belligerent patient, the medic grunted and carefully scooped Simmons up, depositing him in the center of the table.

Before Simmons could truly get over the feeling of tininess- being around these 'bots was instilling a rampaging inferiority complex- a familiar head peeked around the corner. The one visible optic shuttered, a nervous blink, before the rest of the 'bot came around the corner and Swoop stood framed in the doorway.

All of the Dinobots had an animalistic feel to them in either form. Unlike the other 'bots, who were almost interchangeable with their vehicle forms, it was easy to tell exactly what the Dinobots transformed into. This went doubly so for Swoop, whose majestic wings were simply too big to fold back and tuck away. He was the smallest of his team, which meant he was about Ironhide's height, and he had the slender, trim frame one would expect from a flier. Right now he had a ducked head and hunched shoulders, looking both remarkably human and guilty.

"Me Swoop sorry you Simmons hit your head," he muttered, sounding like a child who knew he'd done something wrong but wasn't quite sure what. And Simmons, who had never been one to get all philosophical and try to rationalize his every emotion, immediately knew that he could no sooner yell at Swoop for nearly killing him than he could scold Bluestreak for talking too much. Not that Swoop had the same eager-puppy quality as Bluestreak; just that something about him disarmed Simmons, sucking the anger right out of the human.

Still, he could at least pretend. "Oh really? Well, here's a hint: I wouldn't have hit my head if someone hadn't knocked over the ladder I was standing on."

Swoop straightened up, a grim sort of determination slipping into his stance. He was a Dinobot, Simmons thought wryly. He may be the mild-mannered one, but he still had the pride and the sharp-edged temper that came inherent with the title. He had apologized, probably as ordered; he wasn't going to take much flak from the little creature. The flier glanced over to the ladder, which was lying on its side near the door. Previously Simmons had been using it to help Ratchet with some wiring on the door, until Swoop had come flying in like some sort prehistoric-themed guided missile. The rest was pretty much self-explanatory.

"Me Swoop didn't see lad-der," the 'bot replied, breaking up 'ladder' like the Dinobots tended to do when encountering a new multi-syllable word. He ducked his head again, weaving it slightly from side to side in a manner reminiscent of a curious bird. Idly Simmons wondered how much of an influence their animal forms had over their basic behavior. That would explain a great deal, he thought; Grimlock's aggressive arrogance was due to his predatory form, Swoop's innate caution his acknowledgment of the fragility that all flying creatures possessed. The other three Simmons didn't know well enough to hazard a guess.

"Fine," he said, unable to come up with anything else to say in return. "Just… watch were you're going from now on, all right? You're too big to go galloping around without at least some regard for us humans. We squish too easy."

"Me Swoop sorry," the 'bot repeated, and this time he sounded like he meant it.

"Yeah," Simmons muttered in agreement. He once more reached around to touch the lump, grimacing at the knot raising on his skull. His skin suddenly started crawling, as though an army of ants were marching up his spine, and he spun around to face Ratchet. "Stop that! No scanning!"

"You are in my medbay," the medic retorted sharply. "You are injured. I will do what I want, and you will not yell at me."

There was a this-is-a-tyranny-not-a-democracy tone to Ratchet's words that made Simmons swallow his next protest. It made sense, he supposed- with constant visits from temperamental and/or suicidal mechs like the twins, Ratchet needed to be able to exert control over other mechs with his words alone. Time and time again Simmons had seen how the threat of facing Ratchet scared Sideswipe far more than facing Prowl after one of his stunts somehow went wrong. For once, he understood why.

"So what are you doing here anyways?" he asked Swoop, who peered blankly at the human for a long moment. Then realization dawned and the Dinobot brightened noticeably.

"Me Swoop Di-no-bot medic," he answered. "Me Swoop learning from him Ratchet." One clawed finger indicated the medic in question, who _harrumphed_ as if irritated by the idea.

"The Dinobots have a medic?" Simmons glanced between both 'bots, settling on Ratchet.

"Not officially," Ratchet answered distractedly, fiddling with something on the computer against the far wall. "Unofficially, given how self-destructive these oversized idiots can be, I wouldn't let them out of my sight until at least one of them knew how to keep the others from falling apart where they stood."

Given how possessive Ratchet was in regard to his patients, Swoop had to be pretty good as even an unofficial medic. Simmons studied both 'bots in turn and decided he'd rather not be in the room when lessons commenced. The last thing he was in the mood for was Human Health and Anatomy 101, especially since Ratchet had a way of making even the least offensive of human body systems seem incredibly disgusting. After listening to him for ten minutes Simmons always had this insane desire to climb out of his own skin.

Even more disturbing were the lessons in Cybertronian anatomy Ratchet had made them sit through. The way he could take their bodies apart, could reach in and take a piece out and put it back in as though he were working on a jigsaw puzzle instead of a living being- something about it was just _wrong_. It felt unnatural somehow. Mikaela had been the only one not deeply bothered by the display. Just like working on a car, she'd said, and Sam had given the other humans a 'help me, my girlfriend is creeping me out' look.

"That's my cue," Simmons said to no one in particular. He carefully walked to the edge of the table and looked down. It was a very long drop. He glanced up at Swoop, and the Dinobot was halfway across the room and reaching out for the human when Ratchet intervened.

"You stay here," the medic snapped, and Swoop immediately snatched his hand back. "For at least six hours, until I'm sure there's no potential damage. If you whine again I'll make it twelve hours."

Feeling like a kid in daycare, Simmons scowled and backed away from the edge of the table. He sneered insolently at Ratchet- safe enough, the mech had his back turned- and sat down. He was in the middle of a good sulk when something heavy slammed onto the table only inches away. Simmons lunged to his feet with a vivid curse and turned to snap at whoever or whatever that was, then stopped abruptly.

"Is that Ironhide's arm?" he asked, feeling vaguely ill. This was exactly what he'd meant about the unnatural thing.

"Yes," Ratchet, unable to decide on whether he was amused or angry, settled on irritated. He tapped one finger on the disembodied arm and Simmons turned away quickly. "He and Captain Lennox have learned their lesson- Autobots are not family cars. Unfortunately, we still need to remove…" he paused here and his optics flickered as he studied some internal list. "A rattle, two teething rings, a sippee cup's worth of orange juice, and half a box of Saltine crackers."

"Oh dear lord," Simmons moaned. He scrambled away, positioning himself as far from the arm as he could get, and rested his forehead against his palm. He felt like he was going to be sick. If one of them asked him to help, he knew he would be.

This, quite obviously, was going to be six hours of sheer torture.

--

a/n: short this time, but if you knew how long this sat on my hard drive with only the first quarter done, you would be applauding me for not scrapping the entire thing and starting over. I get annoyed with half-finished things sitting around and often retaliate by erasing it.

Hope y'all had a good –insert winter holiday here- and a happy new year and whatnot. Here's to good times yet to come.


	15. Vacation Part One

What you see below here, dear readers, goes under the heading of 'Why Flame Should Not Be Allowed to Watch TV'. The idea for this was conceived while I was watching Rachael Ray on television. I was unable to change the channel because that meant moving. So instead I kind of daydreamed the entire time, just staring off into space, probably looking like I had the IQ of an eggplant. And then I went upstairs, and this came out.

This is Part One, which, as you sharper readers doubtless have already noted, implies there will be a Part Two. This is long and odd and I am inordinately fond of it. It's for moments like this that I keep writing- when I write something I'm actually willing to go back and read for pleasure. I cannot promise that part two will get the same lofty stamp of approval. I can, however, promise that by the end of part two (or part three if this pans out), Simmons will never want to leave work again, Prime will be begging for Prowl to come back, and Prowl will most likely still be incommunicado.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, for which I am in turns grateful and sad.

--

"Remind me again whose idea this was?"

"Why? So you can shot them?"

"No gun anymore, remember? Not since they took away my badge and made me Official Autobot Pranksters' Punching Bag."

"I think Prowl has a monopoly on that title."

Simmons shook his head and sighed. He wrapped his arms around himself and leaned back, settling himself more firmly on Bluestreak's hood. The young 'bot had been almost embarrassingly thrilled to have been invited along on this little not-quite-optional road trip, conveniently ignoring the fact that the other one-and-a-half 'bots Simmons could get along with were either a.) pteranadons or b.) Jazz. Unfortunately, Jazz's claim on the title of Senior Prank Officer far exceeded even Sideswipe's, and recently he had chosen to exert his authority. This resulted in every responsible-minded person on base being driven up one wall and down the other and left such individuals as Simmons with a serious desire to dismantle the saboteur down to a molecular level.

Optimus Prime's sense of timing could either be viewed as perfect or abysmal, depending on whose side you were on, as he had walked in just as Simmons managed to talk Grimlock into using Jazz's head as a soccer ball. To the human's extreme irritation, Prime had immediately put the kibosh on that plan and had sent those most affected by this increased immature activity out on a form of forced leave. Prowl had sulked for approximately three quarters of a second, probably worried that Prime thought he was losing his effectiveness. Then he remembered how well Prime dealt with the geniuses behind such antics- namely, by hiding in his office and leaving Prowl to deal with them. So the tactician had decided to enjoy his hard-earned vacation and took off without so much as a goodbye, thus confirming Simmons' long-term suspicion that the Autobots' second-in-command did have a childish side. This was his way of saying to Prime 'you wanted them, they're yours. Try to call me once and I will mysteriously no longer be able to speak any language you know.'

Simmons, feeling remarkably like he'd just escaped from prison, had been just as eager to put the base behind him. He could go out and get drunk at some midtown bar. He could eat pizza without a certain medic making snide comments about cholesterol levels. He could rent a movie or buy a book and actually get the chance to finish them. He could sleep the whole night through without a single panicky phone call about how the Dinobot Slag thought the fireflies were using some form of code to taunt him and the fire department was getting hundreds of calls because the triceratops' fiery retaliation could be seen for miles. In short, he could do whatever he wanted.

Except Sam had shown up on his doorstep, cheerfully announcing that he had the week off for spring break and now he was going to some beach and oh, by the way, Simmons was going too.

The older human warmly received this news and proceeded to show his gratitude by slamming the door in Sam's face.

Yet here he was, on a beach some six hours' drive away from any Autobot other than Bluestreak and Bumblebee- an estimated guess, since no one had the faintest idea where Prowl was- and since he was here, he might as well try to enjoy it.

"Fine," he said to no one in particular. "Fine. I'm here, Jazz isn't, and I'm going to enjoy every Jazz-free moment I get."

"You think he really has it out for you?" Sam asked on a laugh.

"No," Simmons drawled. "That would mean he's being irresponsible and immature."

"And we all know Jazz is the paragon for mature and responsible behavior," Mikaela added. This was the main reason Simmons had been dragged along: Sam's parents had been much more lenient about their son and his girlfriend being on a fairly isolated beach once they were assured that an adult would be present. What they didn't know was the exact identity of said adult. As Sam had put it, his mother would freak if she found out that he still talked to the 'psycho agent-man' who had bullied her family, threatened to shoot her, ripped up her roses, and kidnapped her son.

What they also didn't know was that Simmons had no intention of fulfilling his role as chaperone. He was here because Sam had refused to leave the apartment building otherwise and because Prime had already given it his stamp of approval, which Sam liberally translated as meaning that no one else had any say in the matter. This didn't mean he had any desire to follow a pair of teenagers around for six days. He was content to trust them.

Failing that, Sam still turned such an interesting shade of red whenever Mikaela so much as gave him a quick kiss on the cheek that anything involving the hint of a potential of removed clothing would probably send the kid into cardiac arrest.

"Right," Simmons said. He levered himself off Bluestreak's hood and tossed a glance towards the two teens. "You two go have fun doing whatever. Just do me three favors: don't get arrested, don't get killed, and if you do get arrested, don't drag me into it."

"Okay," Sam agreed quickly, interrupting Mikaela. He put both hands on her shoulders and guided her away. The older human watched this odd behavior with a slight frown, then shook it off. True, the two kids had learned how to tolerate him, but that didn't mean they wanted to spend their free time with him.

"C'mon, Blue," he said to the 'bot. "There's a hotel about ten miles north of here that has a presidential suite with my name on it."

They drove up the winding road and ended up in the parking lot of a Hyatt. Simmons checked in, unable to stop smiling when the clerk made a fuss of how he had the most expensive room in the hotel. The government was paying for both that and the teens' rooms and he had every intention of abusing the credit limit.

He ran into the first hitch in his stress-free plan when he headed back out to get his bag from Bluestreak's trunk.

"Open up, Blue," he called as he circled the sleek little car. Instead of responding with his ever-present eagerness, the gunner actually balked.

"Uh, are you sure?" he asked, guilt underlining every word. "I mean, wouldn't it be more fun to, I don't know, go back to the beach for a little while? Maybe you could just-"

"Try not to talk, kid, you'll scare the valets," Simmons cut him off. He tapped a finger on the gunner's trunk panel. "Open."

"sammademedoit," Bluestreak jabbered so fast his words ran together. Simmons was still trying to figure it out when the 'bot grudgingly opened his trunk. The human stared into the small space, face expressionless.

"He did, huh?" he finally replied, his tone as mellow as his countenance. After a moment he stepped back and slammed the trunk with considerable more force than was actually necessary. "You know what, Blue? You got a good idea there. Let's go back to the beach. I have a teenager I need to kill."

--

Sam knelt in the sand, frowning at the instructions for the tent he was trying to set up. He had bought the thing on the way there, much to Mikaela's bemusement, since he highly doubted his parents would okay anything containing the words 'tent' and 'girlfriend' in the same sentence.

"Please tell me you're joking," Mikaela entreated him, not for the first time. As if to encourage her, Bumblebee sent both of them yet another text message. This time he was informing them of the odds of rain or high winds overnight. The last couple of times had been a running tally of all the potentially fatal debris his scanners had already picked up- broken beer bottles, a discarded syringe, a beached jellyfish- and a list of local predators.

"I want to spend at least one night camping," Sam explained, also not for the first time. He studiously ignored Bee's pessimistic texts and returned to fighting with the tent's insanely long support poles. The 'bot wouldn't let anything happen to him, he knew. One of the rules was that the humans had to be close to at least one of the two mechs, and it was pretty much a given that Bumblebee wasn't going near Simmons.

"Why?" Clearly the concept was escaping his girlfriend. She folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight, sticking a hip out in a manner that Sam recognized as a warning sign. Mikaela had a temper, and if you weren't careful, you could find yourself on the receiving end of an impressive tirade for the smallest of reasons.

"Because it sounded fun," he tried one last time. "You can go to the hotel if you want, but I'm sleeping here."

"Do they even allow camping on this beach?" she demanded.

"It's government property," Sam answered. He lifted up a fold of canvas and frowned at the tarp under the tent, which the salesman had suggested to keep dampness out. "I figure, we're here with a government agent, we can do what we want."

"And what do we call this?"

Sam lifted his head and grimaced at the sight. Simmons was striding down the beach towards them, scowl firmly in place.

"Not where I'm staying," Mikaela answered disdainfully. She was as yet unaware of why their adult escort might be a little upset.

"By the way, where are my clothes?" Simmons asked mildly. Sam shifted his attention back to a particularly unwieldy pole.

"Back at base," he admitted calmly. At the cold silence that followed, he continued. "I invited you along to help you relax and loosen up. Maybe if you relax a little, you'll be…"

"Tolerable?" the former agent offered pointedly. Sam still didn't look up.

"Right. Anyways, I decided that one way to help was by making sure you had the proper beach wear."

"By taking my clothes."

"You can buy clothes in the hotel's gift shop," Sam told the pole.

"I already checked that. I can buy Hawaiian shirts and neon-colored swimming shorts at the hotel gift shop. I don't want to wander around for six days in that. Do you want to see me wearing that?"

"Uh, no."

"Oh please," Mikaela muttered to herself. "You boys figure this out yourselves. I'm taking Bee and checking into the hotel. Do you want a room?"

She was looking at him, Sam realized. He met her gaze, then glanced at the tent in front of him. It looked like some deformed sculpture made of hunter-green canvas and metal sticks.

"I'll be fine," he said determinedly.

"He'll break by midnight," Simmons predicted. "Get him a room."

"I plan on it." And she walked away without so much as a good-bye smile to soften the blow of her lack of faith.

So who put you up to this?" Simmons asked, folding his arms and moving under the tent's shadow. Sam glared at him.

"No one," he grumbled. "I did this all by myself. Now I wonder why."

He went back to work and Simmons fell silent. For forty torturous minutes Sam fought the tent, stabbing metal poles through canvas loops that seemed purposely designed too small and constantly stopping to grab double handfuls of the tarp and yank it back around into position. The older man, who was apparently determined to be of no real use, only occasionally broke his silence to point out some error Sam had made.

Finally the thing was set up. The teen rocked back on his heels and studied his masterpiece. Simmons circled around to stand behind him and grunted in what could be considered approval.

"You know, I don't go camping much," he said calmly. "But I do know a couple of common sense things."

"Such as…?" Sam was too tired to bother with snide comments. The man jabbed a thumb towards a sign situated some twenty feet away, about ten feet further up the slope.

"For starters, it's not a good idea to put up your tent below the high tide line."

--

The alarm clock on the bedside table said three-oh-seven when his cell phone started going off. He flung one hand out, groping blindly until he smacked the thing right off the stand. He pursued it- years of being a government agent had hammered in the importance of always answering his phone- and nearly fell off the bed in the process. Finally he turned himself around so he was laying the short way, head and shoulders dangling off one side and feet anchored into the side of the mattress on the other. The top of his head almost brushed the carpet and he could feel the blood rushing to his brain in one big wave.

"There had better be a very, very good reason for calling," he mumbled into the earpiece. After a moment he figured out his problem and righted the phone, repeating his warning into the proper end. He tried to drag himself back up onto the bed and failed miserably.

"You Simmons know where him Prowl is?"

"Swoop?" Simmons pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned at it. He'd been expecting Jazz or Sideswipe or, at a stretch, Red Alert.

"This me Swoop," the Dinobot agreed. He sounded worried. "You Simmons know where him Prowl is?"

"Not a clue. Why?"

"Him Prime want him Prowl to come back."

"Does he now?" Simmons drawled. There was a noticeable lack of sympathy in his tone. "Did he say why?"

"Him Prime upset with him Jazz."

"Fancy that," the human muttered.

"Him Ironhide and him Ratchet both left," the pteranadon reported. "They said they were taking va-ca-tion. And him Red Alert still locked in his office."

"He locked himself in before Prowl left. Has he started talking to anyone on the outside yet?"

"No."

"So that leaves what? Prime and Jazz, the twins and Mirage, and you five, right?"

"No," came the nervous reply. "Him Mirage got upset when him Sideswipe dumped paint on him. Him Mirage left base."

"Stormed out in tantrum, huh?" Simmons corrected himself instantly. "Actually, knowing Mirage, he probably slunk away in a sulk."

"Him Prime know where him Mirage is," Swoop tried to usher the conversation back on-track. "But him Prime not know where him Prowl is."

"And now that Prime's been abandoned by everyone with a mental age in the double digits, he's finding himself a little overwhelmed," the human surmised. Swoop clearly didn't know what to make of the sarcasm and so didn't reply. "Poetic justice if I've ever seen it. I don't know where Prowl is, Swoop. I'll ask Blue and Bumblebee, but I doubt they'll know either. Just do me one favor."

"What?"

"I've got a message for Prime."

"What message say?"

" 'Serves you right.'"

"All right," the Dinobot said, his voice betraying his misgivings. "Me Swoop tell him."

"Oh, and Swoop? When you do, make sure you're out of reach. And I'd suggest you start running immediately. Prime doesn't sound like he's in a forgiving mood." And with that he hung up and maneuvered himself back onto the bed, settling in for a good night's rest.

Maybe he was just an uncaring jackass, but it helped knowing that somewhere, someone was having it rougher than him.

--

Breakfast was the classic cold buffet: muffins and cereal and fruit. Simmons grabbed three boxes of Lucky Charms and settled himself at the table closest to the coffee maker, tossing back the dried marshmallows like a pill junkie getting his fix before pouring the remaining cereal into the bowl. He turned to study the coffee maker and decided he was still too far away. Fortunately the table wasn't bolted down and he easily dragged it over to the counter.

Sam soon stumbled into the room, looking bleary and tired. He looked around, his mere expression warning that he wasn't exactly operating on all cylinders, and had actually taken several steps towards Simmons before the older man's clothing finally registered. Then the teen stopped dead, causing the woman behind him to run smack into his back. His tired eyes went wide and he turned as if to leave, stopping only when Mikaela appeared in the doorway.

Simmons' unusual clothing had been earning him glances all morning, a silent humiliation he'd endured simply for the chance to see Sam's reaction. He was wearing the hotel's gift shop fare: a sky-blue Hawaiian shirt printed with a pattern of red macaws, a pair of bright green swim trunks, and flip-flops. Flip-flops. The ultimate insult. Still, his shoes from yesterday were full of sand, and when in Rome…

"Good morning, Sam," he called out cheerfully, and every eye in the hotel dining room turned to the teen. Mikaela peered around her motionless boyfriend and stared in horror. For a moment it looked as though she were going to join him in the retreat. Then someone standing behind them cleared their throat, flipping some sort of invisible switch that sent the two staggering forward while apologizing to the small line that had formed.

After a moment's conference, the two teens went through the countertop buffet and picked out their breakfast. Mikaela stopped a few feet away from Simmons' table and gave him a disapproving frown, glancing pointedly at the six-inch gap between his table and the counter with the coffee machine. Finally she went around, leaning past him to the cappuccino maker that was on the far side of the regular coffee brewer. She had to practically crawl onto the table to reach.

"Nice," she said irritably to him. "Is this some sort of punishment for something?"

Simmons grunted in reply. He shifted his chair another foot away from the counter and dragged his table after him, leaving just enough of a gap for her to slide into. Mikaela's frown deepened, as though his consideration only served to annoy her.

"I meant your clothes," she informed him dourly.

"This is all I have to wear," Simmons answered calmly. "I'm not kidding about this. Go look yourself; there's nothing else."

"There's a K-Mart in the last town we passed through," she reminded him. The former agent considered this, gnawing absently on a piece of toast as he did so. Finally he shrugged and smiled at her.

"Oh well. By the way, what time did our Master Camper show up last night?"

"The girl at the front desk called me just after midnight," Mikaela replied, dragging a chair around and sitting down opposite him. "She wanted me to come down and make sure it was Sam before she gave him a room key."

"What?" Sam asked loudly from behind her. He peered suspiciously at Simmons before glancing back at his girlfriend. "Sam what? I heard my name."

"Swoop called this morning," Simmons said as a non-answer. "Wanted to know if we knew where Prowl took off to. I knew Prime wouldn't even last a full day."

"It's not funny," Mikaela informed him archly. She then ruined the effect by reaching over to elbow Sam, who had been snickering to himself. "What'd you say?"

"I told him we didn't know and we'd call if we heard something. So what are you two doing this morning?"

"There's a rental service that charters out sailboats," Mikaela said. "I wanted to see if we could take one out for a few days. And by 'we', I mean all three of us."

There was a long and fairly awkward silence following this. Sam and Simmons stared at each other, then turned at the same time to study the girl. She wasn't laughing, Simmons noticed. She actually appeared to be serious.

"Do you even know how to… drive... a sailboat?" Sam asked carefully.

"Sail," Mikaela corrected. "And no. But we can hire someone to help us."

"How about you start with a rowboat and work your way up?" Simmons offered. "I planned on at least trying to relax, which will be much easier without you two around. Especially you, girlie, since every time we talk we start fighting and one of us always ends up walking away, which won't work out so well on a boat."

"You're the one who starts the fights," Mikaela countered. Sam frowned at that; however, to his credit, he knew better than to correct her. "This way we have to learn how to tolerate each other."

"That, and you need someone over twenty-one to rent a boat, right?" the older man asked.

"No!" Mikaela snapped back, sounding insulted. She directed her scowl to the table and picked at the tablecloth with her nails. "…yes."

Before this conversation could degrade any further, there was a loud boom. All three sat bolt upright as the lights flickered. As silence descended over the dining room, the heavy staccato of torrential rain started.

"No boat today," Simmons said a hair too cheerfully. Then his cell phone beeped as it received a text message. He flipped it open and read the words across the screen, then groaned. "All right, Blue's freaking out."

"Over the storm?" Sam asked in confusion.

"According to Bumblebee, he's afraid of getting hit by the lightning." He groaned again and stood. "I'm gonna see if there's a mall or something nearby, someplace with a covered parking garage. Call me if you need anything."

And he headed out into the storm to begin the first day of the vacation from hell.

--

To be continued…

(I always wanted to say that)


	16. Vacation Part Two

Hello children, and welcome to Part Two! This chapter is brought to you by my foot.

… yes, you read that correctly. My foot. The left one, to be precise. I twisted my left ankle last week, which I do on a semi-regular basis, except this time the pain didn't fade away after a few days. Instead it kinda migrated down into my foot until I was limping around in a manner reminiscent of a few months ago where I'd slipped and potentially broken something. Well, I went to the doctor's the other day, which I would not have done had I had any say in the matter, and it turns out I did break something. Two somethings. And I fractured three more. My doctor was not amused by the utter lack of medical attention my foot had received and informed me that I was lucky the bones had set properly. Otherwise he would've had to perform surgery, he told me, to which I calmly replied that if he even thought about coming at me with a scalpel, I was going to jam it up his nose.

Anyways, as it turns out all I have to do is wear this ridiculously uncomfortable blue boot-thing for six weeks. Six weeks is a bit on the long side, but the doctor insisted. Since I am the kind of person who refuses to seek medical help unless the words 'gushing blood' or 'severe burns' could be considered accurate descriptors, he correctly assumed that I wouldn't tell him if it was still hurting if he removed it after four weeks. So six weeks is just to be safe.

I'm a horrible patient, I know. Why? Not a clue. I just am.

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

"It's just a thunderstorm, Blue," Simmons said tiredly for the eighth time that hour. He yawned widely and tilted the seat back a notch further. The 'bot's windows were tinted too darkly for anyone to see inside, so the human didn't bother pretending to drive.

"It's wild electricity," the gunner answered, his tendency to ramble edged out by nervousness. By now both lightning and rain had stopped; otherwise there was no way Simmons would have been able to coax the mech out of the parking garage.

"Wild electricity?" the human echoed. "Is there some other kind?"

"Tame electricity," came the immediate reply, and Simmons had to bite back a _well duh_. Had it been anyone other than Blue, he wouldn't have bothered. Then again, had it been anyone other than Blue, that answer would have been meant as sarcasm.

"What's the difference?" Simmons asked once he could trust himself not to slip in a snarky comment.

"Tame electricity is safer."

Before that useless conversation could slide any further into the realm of the blatantly obvious, Simmons' cell phone started ringing. He rolled his eyes as he tugged it out of his pocket. Whoever it was, he owed them a big thank-you for saving him from having to continue that discussion.

"Sorry, Blue, I gotta take this," he said, trying not to sound too eager for the interruption. "Yeah?"

"When are you coming back?"

"Sideswipe?" Simmons frowned irritably. He'd been expecting Swoop again. "I swear to god, if this is a repeat of the crap you pulled on me when I was in DC…"

"It's an honest question!" Sideswipe shot back. Normally cheerful to the point of making others want to strangle him, the red twin now had a note of nervousness in his voice. "More specifically, do you know when Prowl is getting back? Or maybe you could call the captain and see if he can talk Ironhide into taking his vacation some other time?"

"I'm coming back when my vacation is over. I have no clue where Prowl is and therefore can't tell you when he's getting back. And you can call Captain Lennox yourself. You know, you're the last living creature in the universe I would expect to want mature leadership. Why are you so desperate for the adults to come back?"

"No reason," came the strained reply. "Just, you know, out of curiosity. By the way, what is it that you humans use to track cars or something?"

"You want to put an APB out on Prowl?" Simmons asked in disbelief.

"Prowl? No, not- yes! Prowl works. How do I do that ay-pee-bee thing?"

"You're not putting an APB out on anyone," the human said with a groan. "Alright, Sideswipe. As fun as this conversation's been, I've gotta go. Make sure no one gets killed out there."

"Is that an order or a suggestion?"

"Goodbye," Simmons responded, then hung up. He let out an odd little half-laugh and ran his hands over his face.

"You know what?" Bluestreak said into the silence. "I'm kinda glad I'm here, instead of back at base."

"I hear ya," the human agreed.

--

They were pulling into the hotel parking lot when Bluestreak got a message from Bumblebee. A moment later they were back on the road, heading to the pier where the two teens had requested they meet. Simmons demanded a stop for lunch, since it was almost one in the afternoon. Within moments of their getting back on the road, his cell phone rang. He answered it reluctantly- every time the obnoxious thing rang, the news kept getting worse.

"Quick question," Jazz said by way of greeting. He sounded as smooth and calm as ever, as if the whatever-the-hell-it-is that was going on back at base had no impact on him. "Got somethin' here. It says somethin' 'bout a mandatory court appearance. D'ya think I'm exempt?"

"Mandatory court appearance," Simmons echoed, feeling very broken.

"Seein' as to how I'm not even a citizen of th' world, never mind th' country, do I have to go?"

"This something. Is it a paper you got in the mail? Kinda pink in color and with a big fancy seal at the top of the page?"

"Yup."

"Congratulations, Jazz, you are officially the first Autobot to have been served a subpoena. What the hell are you idiots doing back there?!"

"Nothin'," came the reply. The mech sounded more amused than worried.

" 'Nothing' doesn't get you subpoenaed! What does the paper say?"

"Uhh… copyright infringement."

"You've been downloading music again, haven't you?" Simmons asked tiredly. To his extreme irritation, Jazz only got more cheerful.

"Not just music," the 'bot chirped. "TV shows an' movies too. There're some pretty sweet shows on TV. I'm gonna make Ratchet watch a few episodes of _House_. Oughta cheer him up."

"Wonderful. How did they even catch you?"

"I dunno," Jazz said thoughtfully. "Maybe I wasn't as careful as I thought."

"And how did they issue a subpoena to you anyways? As far as they're concerned, you're just a computer. Subpoenas are issued to people, not machines."

There was a long and awkward silence. Finally Jazz broke it, and for the first time he sounded hesitant and not vastly amused by the whole thing.

"I might've… done a little somethin' bad," he said slowly.

"You created an identity." Simmons stated flatly.

"Created," Jazz repeated pointedly. "Not stole."

"Working off the basis that creating an identity is not actually stealing one and is therefore not illegal." He groaned again and massaged his temples. To think, this was only day two.

"Well, it's not."

"Okay," Simmons said firmly. "I can make the subpoena go away, but I need you to do me a few favors first. And by favor, I mean do this now or I will have Sludge sit on you until I get back."

"An' they are…?"

"Ditch the fake human and stop downloading crap unless you are one hundred percent sure that you won't get caught again."

"Can do," Jazz answered cheerfully. "An' th' fake IDs. You mean all of them?"

"Yes, all of… what? What do you mean, _all of them_?"

"Never mind," the saboteur said smoothly. "There. Done. Anythin' else?"

"No," Simmons admitted grudgingly. "Did Prime see this subpoena?"

"Nope. You wouldn't let Sides put an APB out on him, remember?"

"Prime is missing?" the human demanded in alarm.

" 'Temporarily misplaced' sounds better. Relax, he won't be gone long. Not after what happened last time they left me an' th' twins by ourselves."

"I don't want to know," Simmons decided. "I really, really don't want to know. Oh look, there's the pier. I'm going now, Jazz. Don't call me again." And before the mech could protest Simmons hung up on him.

A moment later Bluestreak pulled in beside Bumblebee in the pier's parking lot. Simmons frowned at the scout- more specifically, at the man sitting on the Camaro's hood. He was in his twenties and looked as though he had just stepped out of a Chippendale's calendar, with swim trunks and a tank top that was offered about as much looseness and protection as a layer of body paint.

As Simmons opened his door, his cell phone buzzed. The text message he received from Bumblebee was only three words long and yet somehow portrayed the scout's barely restrained anger.

_Get him off_.

"Hey," Simmons called to the boy. The young man glanced at him and grinned.

"Are you ze man with ze credit card?" he asked. He had a thick French accent and Simmons, for reasons he couldn't begin to guess at, immediately decided he hated this creature.

"I might be," he said coldly. "Who are you?"

"I am Jacques. I am ze captain your young lady friend hired."

"Okay, first of all, I don't know what Mikaela told you, but I am not hiring some pretty-boy captain with a wussy name like Jacques. Second, get off the car."

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again and frowned curiously. Finally he found a safe reply. "Is this your car?"

"No," Simmons answered. "But I do know that car fairly well, and I know it's particular about who it lets sit on it. Get off the car."

"It is just a car," the boy protested. As he spoke, however, he slid off the scout's hood. Once he was standing a decent distance from the Camaro, he spoke again. "Your lady friend told me I should discuss payment with you. How are you going to pay?"

"Apparently I have a few things to discuss with Mikaela," the older man muttered. "I'll get back to you in a few minutes. Stay here and don't touch the cars." He headed across the walkway and down the dock. Mikaela was standing at the end of it, studying the sailboat tied off in front of her. Simmons had to admit, it was a sleek-looking boat, with certainly enough room for the three of them and that Jacques thing.

"It's too late," the girl called out as he approached. "I've already signed the papers and everything. All we need is for you to pay and we can leave first thing tomorrow morning."

"It's not too late until he has my credit card number," Simmons answered as he stopped next to her. "You're eighteen and flat broke. Your signature means jack to that thing."

"That _thing_ is a very nice young man," Mikaela snapped back.

"That _thing_ is some sort of ridiculous French Adonis, and you sound like his grandmother."

"Is it gonna be like this the whole time?" Sam's voice floated over from somewhere on the boat. After a moment Simmons spotted the kid sticking his head out a cabin window to watch them.

"No," Mikaela said firmly. "No, it's not. We're going to try to get along." She turned to the older man and gave him a sincere smile. "How was your morning?"

"I found a mall," he answered. "Got there almost two hours before it opened. The Penny's was open, so I spent two hours wandering around in there trying not to look suspicious. All the sales clerks thought I was gay, since apparently only a gay man will spend more than ten minutes in a clothing store without a female."

"Did you get anything?" Sam asked.

"You mean clothes?" Simmons asked innocently. When the kid nodded, he smirked. "Nope. Anyways, as we were driving back I get two calls. One from Sideswipe wanting to know how someone goes about putting an APB on a vehicle. The other was Jazz. Turns out he and his multiple personalities all got a subpoena served against them."

"What?!" both teens yelped as one. Mikaela turned a horrified gaze on him while Sam laughed.

"What do you mean, multiple personalities?"

"He created false identities for reasons only he knows," Simmons answered with a shrug. "Apparently he felt the need for a lot of them."

"What'd he do?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Bulk downloading again," Simmons sighed. "TV shows, movies, and music. And somehow he was careless enough to get caught."

"TV shows?" The teen perked up. "Did he say if he got the last season of Prison Break?"

"Sam!" Mikaela scolded.

"What?" the boy responded defensively. "It's not like he's pirating them or anything. Besides, he's got this projector thing. It's better than HD."

"I'm going to ignore that," Simmons said to no one in particular. Mikaela shook her head and turned to face him squarely.

"We are going sailing on this boat," she informed him. "We leave tomorrow morning. Go pay Jacques."

Simmons grunted at her insistence and started back up the dock. It was only two days, he told himself. He could handle two days. After all, it could be worse.

He could be back at base.

--

Twenty minutes later Simmons clambered into the boat and headed down into the cabins. Mikaela was standing near the radio transmitter, the binder with all the codes and contact information in hand.

"Captain Jack has been paid," he announced. "We set sail at six tomorrow morning. What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out how the 'bots could contact us on this radio," the girl answered. "Our cell phones won't get a signal once we're out to sea."

"What? No-no. No, no, no." Simmons snatched the binder out of her hand and slid himself between the girl and the transmitter. "See, this is where the 'hire a captain' thing comes back to bite us in the ass. In the twenty-four hours since we got here I have received three calls from various 'bots. As near as I can tell, Prime is having a slow-motion meltdown. You give them this frequency, we have the potential for Captain Jack finding out about the 'bots by means of Swoop calling to tell us that Prime just drop-kicked Jazz halfway to Milwaukee."

"It's Jacques," Mikaela said distractedly. She was frowning at the binder Simmons held, no doubt weighing the options. Finally she sighed and met his gaze. "We should at least tell them." At the 'them' she gestured to the two cars in the parking lot.

"Bumblebee, sure," Simmons handed her the binder again. "Not Blue. He'd give it up too easy."

"Fine." She was very visibly trying not to start a fight. Simmons considered prodding her to see how far her patience extended, then discarded the idea. If he was going to be stuck on a boat with her for two days, it was better to not start out on the wrong foot.

"I'm going back to the hotel," he said, and she nodded. "See you in the morning."

--

_- Excerpt from Simmons' journal_-

Boat trip, day one

4:17 a.m.- &%?#$! phone ringing _again_. Shut the hell up dammit I'm sleeping- ahhh. Silence.

4:22 a.m.- goddamn _phone_ gonna kill it where's my gun- oops. Did something just break? Oh well.

4:24 a.m.- argh it's that damn phone! Where is it?! It's going out the window _right now_-!

4:38 a.m.- Another day, another crisis handled. Jazz's subpoena issue is now resolved, although Secretary of Defense Keller is not happy about my yelling profanities at him. Apparently it didn't occur to him that Virginia is three hours ahead of California and he might be waking me up at an ungodly hour.

… why is that lamp on the floor over there? Is it broken? Oh hell, did I do that? Crap.

4:45 a.m.- Screw it. I'm not getting any more sleep tonight. Might as well get dressed and go harass the kids.

5:21 a.m.- Two extremely unhappy teenagers up and more or less awake. Considering this was her big idea, Mikaela seems to be particularly snappy. Oh well, they're dressed and in the elevator, so my job is done. All I want now is coffee.

Sam just fell asleep on his feet. Like a horse. He's drooling. He's also tilting… and there he goes. I've never gone cow tipping in my life, but I imagine that the experience would be very similar.

5:38 a.m.- Into the cars we go. I hope Captain Jack doesn't hold us to that six a.m. sail time; it takes thirty-five minutes to get to the pier from the hotel.

Actually, I hope he does. How nice would it be to pull up and see the boat already sailing away?

6:09 a.m.- I'm pretty sure we broke half a dozen traffic laws, but we're here and we didn't get caught and that's all that counts. And oh goodie, the boat is still here too. Wonderful. And there's Captain Jack, looking bright and cheery and happy and oh god I wish I had my gun. I swear, Dad, I'll be a good boy. I only wanna shoot one person. That's all.

6:37 a.m.- I honestly did not think it was possible, but I have found someone who is more anal than Red Alert. Captain Jack is giving us a tour of the boat, except we haven't gotten on the boat yet. We're still hearing about the safety issues involved in the various ways we can get on and off the boat. This lecture has gone on for twenty minutes now, and thanks to Captain Jack's lovely accent I only get about one in every four words. Sam is asleep again. Mikaela is kind of dozing with her eyes open. My job is to stand here and catch them if they start leaning and look like they're about to fall off the dock. And Captain Jack? He's off in his own world, singing praises to the anchor line.

7:16 a.m.- hhhhnn say whu? What? No, I wasn't asleep, I was… wait. We can get on the boat now? Finally.

7:20 a.m.- As it turns out Captain Jack's lecture, which all three of us slept through, included instructions on how we, the paying customers, were supposed to help him. He wants us to help him with the ropes and the sails and all that. He had Sam and Mikaela marching around like brainwashed cult members within minutes. Me, I'm sitting on the very comfortable captain's chair. If Captain Jack wants me in his cult he's gonna have to do a more than just deprive me of sleep.

8:42 a.m.- All right, we are officially under way. We had a few stops and starts, but the guy on the Jet Ski turned out to have a sense of humor and isn't going to sue, so we're good.

By virtue of being old, I am excused from working the ropes and stuff. Mikaela said this in a manner that indicated that I was supposed to be gravely insulted and ready to do three times the work to prove myself. This did not happen.

8:47 a.m.- I hate being old. Really I do. But more importantly I hate being around the young, who are snotty and rude and disrespectful and a total pain in the ass. I wasn't that way when I was twenty-something. I respected my elders. I certainly didn't hand them a fishing pole and tell them that, because they are old, they will catch a fish for lunch and enjoy the experience.

If Mikaela thinks she's gonna get away with this just because we've called a cease-fire, she is wrong.

10:29 a.m.- goddamn pain in the ass fish! Something bite, damn it! I'm getting hungry and Captain Jack has just informed us that lunch will be whatever I catch and dinner will be probably be pizza fresh out of the freezer. No one told me that the meals on this boat would be reheated cardboard and the catch of the day. If they had, I would've stockpiled muffins and boxes of cereal from the hotel breakfast bar.

Wait. We're stopping. Why are we stopping? Is it another Jet Ski?

10:31 a.m.- The kids are going swimming. They extended me an invitation. I nearly throttled them with fishing line.

I actually kinda feel sorry for Captain Jack. When the three of us get to talking or fighting, the poor little Frenchman has no chance of keeping track of the conversation. He's not one of us. He's not a Friend of the Autobots. He probably feels like we're talking in another language, because just about everything we say is an inside joke. You have to know the 'bots, and he doesn't. Poor, poor Captain Jack.

10:37 a.m.- Mikaela accused me of aiming for her on my last cast. She's not entirely incorrect.

10:54 a.m.- The kids are out of the water and helping Captain Jack haul the anchor back up. I'm still fishing. It's absolutely pathetic that I can't catch one dumb animal with a brain the size of a peanut.

Wait- something's happening. I think I've got something.

11:18 a.m.- I just caught the Pacific Ocean's angriest lingcod. The thing is three feet long and yanked me right out of the boat as though I weighed nothing, but I caught the damn thing and that is all that matters. Even Captain Jack is impressed.

11:42 a.m.- I've never been a big seafood person, and now I know why. Once I get off this boat I am never eating fish again. Still, the taste of victory makes it tolerable for now. The kids tell me I'm being insufferably smug about catching the fish. I tell them that, after they successfully haul in a devilfish like the one I caught, they were welcome to complain about my attitude as much as they liked.

11:53 a.m.- This is some kind of joke, right? This is the bathroom, the head, whatever? This thing isn't a toilet. I don't know what it is, but I know what it isn't, and it isn't a toilet. How the hell do you even flush this thing? Did I sleep through the how-to-operate-the-toilet part of Captain Jack's lecture? Please tell me there's a manual here somewhere.

2:43 p.m.- All things considered, this boat thing might not be such a horrible idea. I just spent three hours doing absolutely nothing. I can't even begin to guess when the last time I had such free time was. I read a book. I taught Sam how to properly cheat at Go Fish. I sat at the prow and took in the sights and did nothing. No worries about Jazz being subpoenaed. No telling Sideswipe how to put an APB on something. No more constantly telling people that I have no clue where Prowl is.

If he survives this, I'm gonna have to thank Prime for ordering me to go on vacation.

6:27 p.m.- Dinner choices are leftover cod or slightly overdone frozen pizza. Yummy. Captain Jack, just to prove how weird he can be, put strips of cod on the pizza and stuck them in place by dumping on globs of mayonnaise. I think I speak for the whole world when I say _eeww_.

8:13 p.m.- Mikaela and Captain Jack are arguing about where we're spending the night. Mikaela wants to put down the anchor, Captain Jack wants to keep moving. His idea is better, but also means we're going to have to take shifts making sure we stay on-course. I seem to be the only one who's noticed the thunderheads rolling in from the east.

10:02 p.m.- It is now pouring. Captain Jack ordered the sails to be lowered, so we're just sitting here trying not to get seasick. At least, the kids are. I have the constitution of an ox and therefore am fine.

I am, however, worried about Bluestreak. He was really freaked the other day. Another thunderstorm might send him running back to base. Since the two 'bots are in an empty parking lot, they are allowed to come and go as they please, and Blue knows the way to the mall parking garage. I also made sure Bumblebee knows as well, since Blue has already proven himself almost entirely incapable of rational thought while panicking. So they both know to head for the mall if it starts thundering.

I only hope they don't get towed.

10:59 p.m.- All right. Today's been… interesting, I guess. The good and the bad measured up and came out about equal, which with my life history is actually pretty good. For now, though, I am tired, so it's good night. Here's to a decent tomorrow.

--

a/n: the journal format is new to me. I actually kinda like it. I certainly had fun.


	17. Vacation Part Three

Now, I have a feeling y'all might be asking where I am. God knows I'd be annoyed if an author did this to me. However, I have what I consider to be a really good excuse. I don't really want to go into details, because if I start I probably won't stop. Suffice to say there was an accident and the 'small issue' with my foot went supernova. They've done two surgeries and despite the fact that I am someone who finds humor in even the most painful of situations, I've been extraordinarily bitchy about the entire thing. Good news: no more surgeries, the foot is getting better, and because I can't go anywhere or do anything, I got to take the semester off and quit my job and do _absolutely nothing_ all day! Isn't that exciting?!

See? I'm still being bitchy.

On the plus side, my cousin from Guatemala (very, very long story, the moral of which being: be suspicious when your on-line boyfriend/fiancé asks if you have a passport) came back north to help me in mid-January. She was seven weeks pregnant and she is a stick, so I've watched her as the beach ball in her stomach slowly inflates. She's kept me from pitching my painkillers, which put me in the ionosphere, out the window. That earned her some very vicious insults, of which I am now ashamed. Thankfully she knows I'm all bark and no bite and just laughed me off.

All in all, this whole mess has left me feeling rather depressed and it was reflected in anything I tried to write, so I kept scrapping everything about halfway through. But here this is, after hours upon hours of hammering and deleting and whining to my (very annoyed but somehow still patient- she'll be a wonderful mother) cousin. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

"That was a wonderful idea. Really it was."

"Oh, shut up," Mikaela snapped. She staggered up the dock, walking as though the wooden boards were trying to buck her off. After three days on a boat, Simmons imagined they were all looking less than graceful. He himself was still leaning against the aforementioned boat, waiting until the planking stopped running away from under his feet.

"You okay back there, Sam?" he called. The teen moaned a reply, words gurgling sickly. Of the four of them, Sam had been hit the hardest by seasickness. He'd spent the entire second day, during which the storm had not let up once, reliving every meal he'd eaten in the last year.

"And here I thought the coast of northern California was safe from hurricanes," Mikaela said. She had stopped about twenty feet up the way and was wavering on her feet. After a moment she gave up and sat down.

"It wasn't a hurricane," Captain Jack, which Simmons still insisted on calling him, hopped off the boat just behind the older man. He stumbled and grabbed Simmons' shoulder to steady himself.

Two seconds later there was a loud splash. Mikaela snapped her head around to peer suspiciously at Simmons, who was once again alone at the end of the dock.

"What was that?" the girl demanded.

"Nothing," the man replied calmly. "What was what?"

"Where's Jack?"

"It's Jacques," Simmons corrected her primly, as she had done to him countless times. "He must've slipped. He was here just a second ago."

"Dude," a weak voice muttered from just beyond the agent. He turned to see Sam, both arms wrapped around the mast and face still tinted green, staring at him. "You have got to teach me that. How can you even move like that? Aren't you like fifty or something?"

"Or something," Simmons answered darkly. "And I'm not showing you anything. You lost all student privileges when you puked on me."

"I told you, I had no idea I was gonna do that. How many times do I have to apologize?"

"_Excuse moi_," Captain Jack had finally found his way back onto the dock. He was glaring at Simmons as he pulled himself up. "Is there a reason you do not like me, sir? Or perhaps you are-"

Simmons took two steps towards the younger man, planted one hand in the middle of his chest, and pushed. He then turned on his heel and strode down the dock, heading for dry land.

"You are a horrible person," Mikaela told him as he passed.

"Thank you," came the reply.

Simmons followed the walkway around to the parking lot and was grateful to see both 'bots sitting there. He had plans for the next two days, plans which included dry clothes and real food and a very long shower- he had salt from dried seawater in places salt had no right to be- and waiting around for his ride to show up would have pushed him over the edge. As he came up to the two cars he noticed a bright splash of green at the end of both their antennae. Bluestreak also had something similarly colored dangling from his rearview mirror. The human circled around to the gunner's antenna. He stopped dead in his tracks as the identity of the green blob became clear- a classic egg-shaped Martian head with the oval black eyes- then took two steps back.

Both mechs had new bumper stickers displaying the same alien head and the words 'I BELIEVE' written bold across it.

"It was a radio station give-away," Bluestreak began.

"Did I ask?" Simmons interrupted. He was still unsure what to make of this. "I didn't ask. I made it a point to not ask. I don't want to know."

"We also got some for Sideswipe and Jazz," Bumblebee added in his half-healed voice.

"Oh, yeah, because encouraging the madness makes so much sense."

"And we got you and Sam shirts. We would've gotten one for Mikaela but we didn't know what size she wears and Bumblebee said she might get upset if we guessed too big. So I told him I didn't know what size you wore but he said it was okay, because males aren't bothered by that as much as females. I still don't get it, so I thought I'd ask you, except you didn't get here until almost a day later than you said and now you're all wet. Are you okay? And where are Sam and Mikaela?"

Simmons rocked his weight back on his heels, letting the torrent of words roll over him. When it became apparent that Bluestreak had run out of steam, he responded.

"Get a female a shirt that's too big for her, she might think you're implying that she's fat. Males, on the other hand, won't read that far into it and most likely won't even notice it's too big. We're late because we got caught up in that huge storm system, which is also why I'm still wet. I'm cold and damp and covered in salt, and the kids are probably still back on the dock fishing Captain Jack out. Again."

"You aren't answering your cell phone," Bumblebee said, tone mildly accusing. The human produced the machine in question and tossed it from hand to hand.

"Unfortunately, when I got pulled into the ocean by a large angry fish, the phone went with me. Salt water is not kind to delicate machinery, as I'm sure you are fully aware." He slipped the useless thing back into his pocket and sighed as he regarded the Camaro. "How many panic calls did you get?"

"One. Prime came back."

"Huh," Simmons mused. "Now, normally that would be considered a good thing."

"It was," Bluestreak chipped in. "He just didn't get back fast enough. So then he had to call Ratchet back in, and they were both pretty upset-"

"This cannot possibly end well," the human cut in. "But I'll ask anyway. Why did Ratchet need to be there?"

"Well, the twins were bored, so they decided to go see how the Dinobots were doing, and-"

"Long story short, they annoyed Grimlock and he beat the slag out of them," Bumblebee finished. Bluestreak hummed in happy agreement, apparently unbothered by the constant interruptions.

"And Jazz?" Simmons asked, unable to decide whether to laugh or cheer.

"Jazz is faster and smaller and knows how to hide better, so…"

"So he's been sticking to Prime like glue," the human said with a nod. "All right, kids. This has been fun, but I'm ready for a real vacation now. C'mon, Blue, let's get back to the hotel. I'm spending the next three days on the beach and that is final."

---

Thomas Banachek strode down the beach, steps brisk but not yet hurried. This had to be some sort of a joke, he told himself. It was what he should expect from a pair of teenagers. There was no way he was going to find his former partner lounging on the beach. That would require relaxation, a word which Reggie Simmons barely even knew the meaning of.

He sighed as he paused, balancing carefully as he pulled off a shoe and dumped out the sand inside. To be perfectly honest he wasn't really looking forward to this meeting. Reggie was probably dying of boredom- he didn't do vacations, especially ones he was forced to take. And yet…

And yet, Tom kept remembering how the two kids had acted. When he'd said he was looking for Reggie, Sam had started laughing in a slightly menacing manner. Even more worrying was Mikaela's lone direction.

"_Go down to the beach and follow the hotel waitress carrying the fancy drink."_

Tom shoved his shoe back on and continued down the beach past the two pairs of giggling teenagers, the old woman wearing a skirted swimsuit, the beach bum camped out under a striped umbrella, the two little boys building a sand castle-

"Hey, Tom!"

The beach bum knew his name? Tom backed up a few steps and peered into the shade cast by the umbrella, and suddenly understood why Sam had laughed.

"Oh my God," he said simply. Reggie Simmons grinned broadly and sipped at his candy-cotton-pink drink, clearly enjoying his friend's distress.

"Want something?" the younger man offered. "The hotel gave me this little gizmo. All I have to do is type in my order and the bring it out." He waved around a beeper-like object. Tom, however, was too busy taking visual stock of his friend to respond. Reggie, who during his S7 days had required serious bribing to get him to wear anything as informal as a pair of jeans, had on a pair of green swim trunks and a black t-shirt with the iconic Martian head on the front. At the foot of his lawn chair was a pair of dollar store reject plastic flip-flops.

"Oh my God," Tom repeated, unable to think of anything else to say. Reggie smirked at his eloquence.

"I know what you're thinking: one of us hit our heads, you just can't tell which."

Tom studied his friend carefully. Obviously the Autobots had conveniently forgotten to mention that the Pod People were actually real and already on Earth, switching out former Sector 7 agents for tipsy beach bums. After a moment of this Reggie held out the aforementioned 'gizmo'.

"You want a drink?" he asked. "This one is actually pretty good."

"What is it?" Tom finally broke his reverie. He eyed the drink uncertainly.

"A Wiki Waki Woo."

There was a long moment of silence as the older man tried to process this new piece of information. "Come again?"

"Please don't make me say that again," Reggie muttered as he glanced at his glass. He ought to, Tom thought viciously. This was beyond embarrassing for them both.

"Why are you drinking that anyways?" he tried carefully. Reggie gave a snort as if Tom was the one whose mental stability was in question.

"I'm on vacation," the younger man enunciated slowly, waving one hand to indicate the beach around them.

"Wow." Tom folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. "They actually did it. I didn't think it was possible, but they did it. They broke the great Reggie Simmons."

"They broke Prime too," Reggie answered, not remotely bothered by this. "And Prowl. We think. We don't know, since no one's seen him since Prime kicked us out."

Tom shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around this. "You know, once upon a time you hated the very idea of vacations."

"Once upon a time the giant alien robots didn't talk back," Reggie countered, and Tom had to give him points for that.

"Regardless, you're still technically on the clock, and you've got a job to do. There's a 'bot landing not far from here and you're the official greeting party."

"Oh goody, Teacher," Reggie chirped. "Do I get to take a friend, or do I have to be a big boy and go by myself?"

Tom almost groaned. He knew what this new behavior meant. "Exactly how many of those woo-wakis have you had?"

"Wiki Waki Woo," Reggie corrected, then looked alarmed at his own words. "Er, I mean- three."

"All right, never mind. I'll handle this; you stay here and drink." Tom turned on his heel and headed back towards the hotel. This day was getting weirder by the minute.

"I am perfectly fine!" the younger man snapped hotly. He peeled himself out of the lawn chair and true to his words, save an initial stumble that could be blamed upon the shifting sands, managed a decent attempt at a sober man's walk. "I am not drunk! Those things didn't have enough booze in them to get a toddler drunk."

"And yet I'm still not letting you go," Tom replied. A dark expression rolled over the younger man's face and he sneered.

"Good luck explaining that to Blue," he challenged.

"Blue?"

"Bluestreak. You know- insecure little kid what talks a lot?"

Tom repeated the descriptor several times before it suddenly clicked. "What, the Autobot? You call him Blue now?" He stared in open disbelief as Reggie nodded. "He's an alien robot, tens of thousands of years old, and to you he's an insecure little kid called Blue?"

The old woman in the swimsuit-skirt was staring at them. Tom realized he might have gotten a little loud on that last sentence.

"He's scared of his own shadow, he acts like a four-year-old who got adopted as the Marine Corps mascot, and his name is Bluestreak. Where, exactly, is the problem?"

"Whatever happened to NBE…?" Tom trailed off, not knowing Bluestreak's assigned number.

Apparently Reggie didn't either. "They don't like it when you call them that."

"And you care about what people like since when?"

"Since these people are twenty feet tall and, if annoyed, might 'accidentally' step on me."

That line of conversation died as they headed up the concrete path to the hotel parking lot and the two 'bots came into view. Reggie headed over to the grey Porsche while Tom stopped to gawk at the matching alien-head bumper stickers both mechs sported.

"What is that?" a new voice asked suddenly, and Tom glanced up. Reggie had brought his drink with him, he noticed abruptly. The 'bot- Bluestreak- seemed understandably leery of the sweating glass and its contents.

"A drink," Reggie tapped the rim of the glass against the window. "Open."

"Ah, no," Tom hurried over to his friend's side. "I'll take driver's side. You go over there. And leave the drink; there's a law against open containers of alcohol."

Reggie had, thankfully obedient, circled the Porsche's nose while the older man had been talking. He frowned at the last sentence and set the drink on the curb. A moment later he picked it back up and downed the last of it in three swallows. Tom watched him in resigned amusement.

"What?" Reggie demanded.

"You're going to hate yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning," Tom chuckled.

"No I won't. I don't plan on waking up until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest."

"Uh huh." Tom swung the door open and carefully settled himself into the driver's seat. It felt no different than any other car, which surprised him. This was the first time he'd been in a 'bot- a phrase which was so wrong in so many ways- and while he honestly didn't know what he'd been expecting, a normal car was not it.

"Are you all right?" The voice came from everywhere at once and Tom had to peel himself off the ceiling. Before he could answer, the voice continued. "Because you're really tense. Ratchet says humans do that when they're scared or something, but I don't see anything for you to be afraid of. I'm not mean like others are. I guess it could be because you're not used to us, but we're not that bad, really. I mean, Sunstreaker is a little scary, and Ratchet too I guess, and maybe Ironhide when he gets mad, and the Dinobots-"

"Want a shovel?" Reggie interrupted. "It might actually slow you down."

"What?"

"Never mind," the human waved it off and grinned at Tom, who was still trying to sort through the sudden onslaught of words.

"Bluestreak, huh?" he said finally.

"Yup."

"That's very… appropriate," Tom muttered.

"Better than NBE-16," his friend agreed cheerfully. He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slid them on, grinning broadly. "Onward, noble steed!"

There was a brief pause before Bluestreak realized that he was the steed in question. As he started up his engine, Tom saw Reggie slip something long and very slender out of the glove compartment.

"What is that?" he asked cautiously. He wasn't fooled by the act for one minute- Reggie was far more drunk than he appeared to be. The younger man had always been good at acting sober, which had gotten them into several messes until Tom learned how to judge his partner's true sobriety.

"Membership pin," Reggie answered, holding up the same alien bumper sticker.

"You are not putting that on whoever shows up unless they agree."

"It'll only be for a little while."

"Reggie, listen to me. This planet is not a fraternity and you are not subjecting new 'bots to a hazing ritual. Put the sticker down."

"Fine."

"Where are we going, anyway?" Bluestreak asked. Tom pulled out his PDA and read the coordinates to the 'bot, studiously ignoring the giggly drunk to his right. The mech hummed tunelessly, no doubt checking the coordinates. After a moment he spoke again. "It'll be about twenty minutes. Is… is he okay?"

Tom glanced at Reggie- a mistake, because he then had to suppress the desire to hit his forehead against the steering wheel. His former partner was holding up a pair of fuzzy-dice-like alien heads.

"Is this one all right, then?"

"Bluestreak?" Tom asked tiredly. "Do me a favor."

"What?"

"Make it ten minutes."

---

a/n: the Wiki Waki Woo is a real drink. I kid you not. It's got amaretto and rum and all sorts of fruit juices in it- in other words, a classic Hawaiian-style tropical drink. I'm solidly a margarita girl- my mother blames it on the Jimmy Buffett music I grew up on- but I'm game for most types of drinks. However, if I was ever drinking a Wiki Waki Woo and someone asked me what it was, I'm pretty much positive I wouldn't answer. There are just some things a person shouldn't be forced to say.

Hooray for quasi-cliffhangers! Guess who the newcomer is and get a cookie. Or a pint of mint ice cream. Not the one I'm currently eating, mind.


	18. The Drunk and the Supremely Annoyed

Ah, spring in Kansas. Nice for two weeks, cloudy and rainy for two weeks, nasty thunderstorms late at night, random ice storm, eight inches of snow by midnight and sixty degrees by the following noon, and of course the obligatory tornado sirens going off at least once a week. My poor cousin doesn't know what to make of this. She's from Pennsylvania. They don't _have_ weather up there, for God's sake. They certainly don't have wind. Especially not the Great Plains brand of wind, which has been known to rip hundred-year-old oak trees up by the roots and roll semi trucks off the road. Unfortunately for her wind is a Kansas staple, present year-round, although it generally saves the really fun stuff for spring. Like late last week, when it topped thirty miles an hour. Y'all non-Midwesterners might not think of thirty-mph wind as impressive. To this I say: try driving in it. Forget the lane; good luck staying on the road.

IMPORTANT! All right, kiddies, it's poll time! Go to my profile, look at the (slightly lengthy) question at the top, click on it, and vote. You get three votes each; however, it's a blind poll because I'm evil like that. Keep in mind that I am only doing one of those- _only one_. Winner, well... wins. Duh. Anyways, poll closes one week after I post this. Maybe. Given my idea of punctuality the exact date is questionable, but it'll be up for at least a week. The chapter I write accordingly will be either the next one or the one after depending upon what wins. There will be another reminder at the end of the chapter, so read and review and go vote!

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

"I cannot believe I let you come with me."

"Third time you've said that," Simmons pointed out cheerfully. He was drunk, he thought lazily. He was in that warm-'n-fuzzy stage, where everything felt good and he had no concerns in the world. Tomorrow would be a different story, but for now he couldn't bring himself to care. He held up the alien head dice and poked at one, sending both into a hypnotic twirl.

"You know something?" Tom said abruptly, reaching over and snatching Simmons' new toy away. "I was talking to Secretary Keller the other day."

"So was I," Simmons responded cheerfully. "Probably not about the same thing, though." Not unless Tom had a subpoenaed saboteur Simmons didn't know about.

"We were talking about you."

"Ah. Did he have anything good to say about me?"

"Does anyone ever have anything good to say about you?" the older man asked in exasperation. "I mentioned that we'd known each other since you were eighteen. He was trying to find a subtle way to ask if you've always been like this."

"Been like what?" Simmons was only half-interested in the answer; while pulling off the expressway Bluestreak had passed a billboard advertising a restaurant with an extensive drink list and the former agent was measuring the odds of their stopping on the way back. He watched the neon-lit restaurant sign glide past the window, twisting until he was almost completely turned around in the seat. After a moment the sign vanished from view and as he was turning back he realized Tom was watching him.

"You can't seriously still want more to drink," the older man half-pleaded.

"Been like what?" No longer distracted, Simmons now wanted the answer to his query.

"Like this," Tom snapped, waving a hand in his friend's direction. "An arrogant, immature, obstinate, sarcastic pain in the ass."

"Is that all?" Simmons frowned thoughtfully. "I'd've thought hostile at least would make top five."

"No, it got beat out by trigger-happy."

"But he isn't any of those," Bluestreak suddenly interrupted. Both men stared at the dashboard in utter shock.

"I'm not?" The topic of their current conversation sounded surprised. As if he couldn't tell whether this was a good thing or not.

"You do realize who we're talking about, right?" Tom asked carefully. "We're talking about Reggie Simmons. The guy sitting right beside me."

"I know."

The two humans exchanged confused glances. Simmons could only shrug helplessly at Tom's questioning look. Clearly unnerved by the silence, Bluestreak continued, his words coming out machine-gun fast.

"I mean, he's never been any of those to me. He's always nice to me. But maybe that's just me, because I have seen him being mean to other people, but still they normally deserve it. Well, not always. That one guy he punched in the parking lot last week didn't actually do anything that I saw, but still, he's always been nice to me. He didn't yell at me for the jet judo thing or for leaving his clothes at base and he showed me a covered parking garage for when it's stormy and he even helped me when Sideswipe taped me up and made me dress up like a seeker for Halloween. Or he tried to help, until Sideswipe put him in the box. So I don't think he's mean or anything."

The 'bot trailed off there, and Simmons could all but hear the crickets chirping. He could also hear Blue silently begging for one of them to say something.

"So!" Simmons shifted himself, settling back into the seat more comfortably. "What do you know about the new guy, kid?"

"He actually thinks you're nice? You?" Tom demanded. The other two ignored him.

"His name's Hound," the 'bot said, grateful for the near-successful change in topic.

"Hound, huh? He's not another beast-former, is he?"

"What meds have they got you on that this kid thinks you're _nice_?" The older human wasn't letting it go. Bluestreak hesitated, unsure of which one to answer, then followed Simmons' lead and ignored the indignant organic sitting in his driver's seat.

"No, he's not. He's got a vehicle alt-form just like me. Except his will be bigger, 'cause he's bigger than me. He'll probably be a- what are they?- a truck. Or something. He likes nature."

"And if you're so nice to him, why can't you spare a little for the rest of us?" Tom added irritably, still not willing to let it go. Unfortunately for him, he'd met his match in sheer pigheadedness in Reggie Simmons.

"He likes nature, huh? Good. This planet's got enough of it. And it'll give him something to do. He can take a day trip to Redwood, see the trees that are eight times his height. See how he likes being the short one."

"There are trees that big on this planet?" Bluestreak asked in awe. There was a pause as they waited for Tom's next comment. When it appeared to not be forthcoming Simmons grunted.

"Maybe not that big. I don't know. What I really wanted to know is, where on the scale is this guy gonna fall?"

"On the scale?" the mech echoed blankly.

"On the Annoy-O-Meter. Sideswipe's a solid nine, Jazz ranges from a four to a ten, Wheeljack scores a two as long as he isn't blowing crap up, Ratchet's a seven on a good day and a sixteen when he decides to play doctor-"

"He _is_ a doctor. Or at least a medic."

"Whatever. Anyways, on a scale of one to ten, how much am I gonna regret his being here?"

"If the scale is one to ten, how did Ratchet score a sixteen?" Bluestreak asked curiously.

Tom, apparently over his shock, started laughing. Simmons rolled his eyes and leaned further back against the seat. After a moment he groped for the recline lever and the seat slammed as far back as it would go. The man remained mostly upright as he pulled the other way on the lever. There was a brief hesitation; then the seat shot up and slammed into his spine hard enough to propel him forehead-first into the dashboard.

"I'm not doing it!" the 'bot yelped as Simmons growled. The human snorted and proceeded to fidget with the lever, moving the seat into the perfect position in increments of a half-inch. He stopped abruptly when the seat made a short sharp _skrugh_-like noise, then pushed it back and slid it forward until it made the noise again. And again. And again.

"You know, that is only the fourth most annoying thing you could possibly be doing," Tom said conversationally. Simmons grinned toothily and began to crack his knuckles one at a time.

"I thought you said we'd be there in ten minutes," the older human muttered accusingly, trying not to wince at the popping noises issuing from his partner's joints.

"I did," Bluestreak answered. "It hasn't been ten minutes yet."

"Really? I could have sworn a couple of decades have passed since. I guess that's what I get for trapping myself into a small space with a drunken lunatic."

"There's the turn-off," Simmons said casually, ignoring Tom's murmur of 'thank god'. He leaned to his left unconsciously as the turn came up; Tom pushed him away with his elbow. Judging from the 'we are not amused' look he was getting, Simmons could abandon all hope of stopping at the bar. Still, the hotel served drinks, so all was not lost.

They meandered onto a side road, skirting a long thin lot full of used cars. Some of them were rusted, hollow shells; the rest were completely beyond hope. Simmons gazed mutely at the unending Row of the Damned until his gaze lit upon a familiar shape.

"Ow!" Tom snapped as his friend's fist hit his arm with a good deal more force than the drunk man probably realized. He clapped a hand over the affronted area and scowled. "What was that for?"

"Red punch buggy," the younger man said on a snicker, tapping the window to indicate his find. "No punch back."

Tom honestly tried to ignore this. He really did. He tried to be the mature one, the responsible one, the adult. But they had known each other for too long. They had bonded during their wild and crazy first years on the job- one a good deal more wild and crazy than the other, but that was unimportant- and the years had a funny way of melting away sometimes. Briefly they were young again; they were fierce and immortal and lacking in the God-given common sense possessed by the average carrot. And so, operating solely on instinct honed by endless repetition during their eventful youth, Tom ignored the one rule of the age-old game and hit him back.

Naturally it only went downhill from there.

--

Hound watched curiously as the normally cautious Bluestreak took the last turn fast enough to send him teetering dangerously on two wheels. After a moment he righted himself and the other two tires slammed back down just before the gunner fishtailed to a halt. Idly the scout wondered what had the young 'bot moving so fast, as nothing was chasing him and he'd seen enough of Sideswipe's more spectacular wipeouts to know to be wary of such speeds. Then the silver 'bot's doors flew open and two humans clambered out.

New to this planet as he was, Hound had seen humans. They were a prolific breed; he'd needed to put forth no special effort to find them. They also seemed completely unaware of their own dismal size and natural fragility- indeed, their planet was wild and stuffed to overflowing with all forms of organic life, yet it was the clumsy, weaponless humans who dominated it all.

They were also noisy little things, he thought wryly, now understanding why Bluestreak had been so anxious to let them out. The two humans were arguing. Loudly.

"... not my fault! They put me on a boat for three days with a French Fabio and _that girl_!" The first one out- after having nearly whacked its head on Bluestreak's door frame, Hound noted- slammed his fist on the gunner's roof in emphasis of his last two words. Clearly 'that girl' was not a friend of his.

"And so, you being you, the only acceptable way for you to approach the scenario was in full-blown sulk mode." The other human was slightly more controlled, but only just.

"What do you want from me? Should I have grabbed some maracas and started a conga line?"

"You know, Reggie, contrary to whatever warped belief you've got, it is possible to be nice to more than one person in the entire universe. It wouldn't have killed you to pretend to be a tolerable human being for three days."

Bluestreak edged away from the two organics, who appeared to not notice his movements, and slowly maneuvered himself until he was parked next to Hound. The two mechs sat and watched the fight as the men wore out their current topic and moved on to older grievances.

"Do they do this often?" Hound asked finally.

"No," Bluestreak replied, immediately rallying to the humans' defense. "Well, Simmons- the shorter one- he sometimes yells like this with Mikaela. A lot sometimes. And Captain Lennox, whenever he comes around. And Sideswipe and Jazz and Sunstreaker when they really annoy him. And Wheeljack once, when he made this gun-"

"So, in other words, when you said no... you actually meant yes." The older 'bot translated, then chuckled when Bluestreak didn't answer.

Abruptly the one Bluestreak had labeled as Simmons appeared at the gunner's side, flinging open the door and scrambling inside. Hound momentarily tensed; he wasn't sure what it would feel like to have a living creature _in_ him, but he was fairly confident that it would require a lot of getting used to. After a moment the human reappeared, hands wrapped around several odd objects, and kicked the door closed. The other human groaned.

"What did I say about that stupid bumper sticker?"

"No hazing the newcomer," the first one recited in a very practiced voice. Hound, meanwhile, turned his attention back to his fellow Autobot.

"I thought you said that one was called Simmons."

"He is," the gunner answered, obviously pleased at knowing something his elder didn't. "Humans have three names. You can call them by any of them, though the first name is more personal. They also have titles, like Mister or Senorita or Your Great and Glorious Mad Scientist-ness."

"Okay," Simmons interrupted suddenly. "I heard that. Rule number one!"

Hound started to ask what that meant, but Bluestreak was already answering. "Don't trust anything I find on the internet, see on TV, or hear from Sideswipe."

"Not too sure about the internet or TV things, but the 'don't listen to Sideswipe' rule's been around for a while," the older mech murmured. Simmons shrugged.

"The first two are more for the gullible kids who can't quite see the line between reality and utter crap. Now then," and here the human held up his double handful of items, "I have a question for you."

"You don't have to listen to him," the other one added loudly, earning an irate glance from Simmons.

Hound debated whether he really wanted to know where this was leading and decided it couldn't hurt. "And what question is that?"

Simmons smiled. It was not a friendly look.

"How badly do you want into the great and hallowed halls of the Fraternity of Earth?"

--

"There they are," Mikaela announced finally, and before he was even properly aware that he was moving Sam was on his feet and peering across the parking lot. It had been three hours since Tom Banachek had come by to collect his well-marinated friend and go track down the newcomer. Bumblebee was sent a digital query to Bluestreak about an hour ago and received the maddeningly nonspecific answer of 'ran into a delay'. At least, that was the condensed version.

"And there's the new guy," Sam said to himself as a forest green jeep-looking vehicle swung into the lot behind Bluestreak. "I can't see anything."

There was a brief pause as both teens exchanged a glance. Then they were racing around the pool, pushing the gate open and heading into the parking lot. The two new arrivals slid into flanking spots around Bumblebee. As the jeep got closer, Sam could distinctly make out a blur of neon green dangling from the rearview mirror.

"Ha! He got it on! Pay up." He turned and held a hand out to his girlfriend, who in turned rolled her eyes and shifted around to face him properly. She was wearing a two-piece swimsuit- not a bikini, but certainly not possessing of much pocket space, and Sam felt his face going neon red as his teenage mind inevitably went down the path of wondering where she would be keeping her money had she had it on her.

Leaving her brain-ruptured boyfriend behind, Mikaela drew her beach towel closer around herself and walked carefully over to the silver Porsche. As she got closer she noticed a strange sound, like that of a turkey gargling marbles, issuing from the 'bot.

Tom had already swung himself out. He headed over to the passenger's door and peeled Simmons out. Clearly the former agent was well past drunk; he was supporting none of his weight, instead leaning entirely on his friend, and belting out the lyrics to a butchered verion of the Police's Roxanne.

"You stopped at a bar? Is that why you took so long to get back?" Mikaela asked in dismay.

"He jumped out of the car," Tom grunted irritably. "Not like we had a choice. Where's his room?"

"Y'know wha?" Simmons blearily reached out to poke at Mikaela and missed the first two tries. "Yer not tha bad. Kinda 'noying, but shtill. 'Cept for tha shtupid boat-!" He blinked at her, smiled wobbly, and launched into the next verse of the song, managing to hit a note just so and make even the three 'bots flinch.

Mikaela gave Tom directions and watched as he hauled Simmons into the building. For a moment she just stared. Then she glanced towards Sam, who was standing just behind her.

"Wow," he said eloquently. She nodded in agreement. Then, "By the way, did you bring a camera?"

"I have my cell phone," she answered. There was a pause as the teens considered doing the kind thing. Then, as though some switch had just been flipped, both exploded forward, grabbing their phones and yelling for Tom to wait up.

Neither was fool enough to let a perfectly good blackmail opportunity go to waste.

--

a/n: Reminder: Poll in profile! Go vote! And please don't leave comments about the poll in a review. PM me instead. It's just so much easier for my highly disorganized brain to handle.


	19. Game Over, Want To Play Again?

I take no responsibility for this chapter. Instead, I fully blame the three jumbo-sized watermelon margaritas I drank. I went out to dinner with my mother and her coworkers, you see, and the drinks were a bribe so I wouldn't start flinging refried beans at the head of the next insensitive idiot to make some comment about my foot. Anyways, as soon as we got home I sat down to write and the next morning found the following chapter already written out. I actually have been wanting to write something like this for a while but never did. For novelty's sake, I'm gonna keep this, although this is the last time I'm allowed near a laptop while not sober.

For those of you wondering about the poll, there is a very clear winner and I am working on it. It will probably be the next chapter posted. Oh, and minor detail... I might be moving to either Pennsylvania or Louisiana within three to six months. Nothing is decided right now; this is just a maybe. More info will be given as it comes.

Disclaimer: me no own.

--

"Curb!" Simmons yelled, throwing both arms out to brace himself and stomping uselessly on the brake pedal. "Curb! Can you _not see_ the--"

And then they were over it, the car's undercarriage shrieking in agony and shooting off sparks. The entire vehicle rose easily a foot into the air and Simmons cussed ripely as his head hit the ceiling. For a moment he saw only dancing purple spots; then his vision cleared and he slammed a fist on the steering wheel.

"I said _curb_, you moron! Do you not know how to listen?!"

"Oh, were you talking to me?" Sideswipe replied innocently. "I thought I was gonna make it."

"You are a Lamborghini. You have no clearance. An oxygen molecule could not get between you and the ground, never mind a freaking block of cement!"

"Well, I got over it."

"Of course you did; you're going a hundred and thirty miles an hour, you have momentum on your side," the human snarled.

"Shouldn't you be talking to the nice general?" the infuriating 'bot asked cheerfully. Simmons growled in response and pitched his cell phone against the dashboard as hard as he could.

"The nice general put me on hold and won't talk to me until he takes care of this rogue F-22 roaming around over downtown Los Angeles!"

"Well, it's not my fault!"

"You said you could catch the damn thing! 'It'll take three minutes', you said. 'I've been practicing jet judo', you said. 'I might not even fall off this time', you said. _You_ told Bluestreak to not shoot the damn thing down when he had a chance. This is. _All_. Your. Fault!"

Sideswipe didn't immediately respond; he was too busy trying to pull a u-turn on a one-way side street. By the time he started paying attention again, Simmons knew, everything he'd said would be ignored and/or forgotten. In one ear and out the other and whatnot. Or whatever it was mechs had instead of ears.

Sure enough, once they hit a straight patch of road, Sideswipe asked, "What were we talking about?"

"How this is your stupid fault," Simmons ground out. He had one arm braced against the window and one foot jamming the brake pedal against the floorboard. This reminded him of the last time he'd ridden a roller coaster, where he'd whacked his head against a support pole. At least, he thought it reminded him of it. His memories of that day were still a little fuzzy.

"Huh. I don't wanna talk about that anymore. How 'bout this one: why are you still here?"

"I was here when you took off, moron. Remember? Prime contacted you and you refused to wait the five seconds it would have taken for me to get out. And for some reason, I haven't yet waved my magic wand and teleported myself to anyplace that _isn't_ inside an insane alien robot trying to commit high-speed suicide."

For a moment, Simmons actually thought his cut-it-with-a-knife-thick sarcasm managed to get through. Then Sideswipe expertly killed that vague hope with two words.

"Why not?"

"All right, Sideswipe," Simmons said, resting his forehead against his hand. "I've got a dilemma for you. Shooting you would do little damage and I see no reason to shoot myself because of your stupidity. And yet, I have to shoot something."

Before Sideswipe could answer that- probably even before he could figure out the reasoning behind the non-sequitur- Simmons' cell phone starting ringing. The human took his life into his hands and leaned over to snatch his phone off the passenger floorboard where he had last seen it. It was a little worse for the wear after its encounter with the dashboard, but as it clearly still worked, he didn't really give a crap.

"What!" he barked into it. The speaker produced a high pitched squeal and he yanked the offending object away, nearly shot-putting it through the passenger window when Sideswipe swerved around one of those ridiculous hybrids whose driver dared to go a mere five miles over the speed limit. He paused to take a deep, bracing breath, then tried again. "I mean, this is Simmons."

The phone answered with more squeals and bursts of static. Simmons nearly threw it against the dashboard again, then changed his mind and turned on the speaker phone in time to catch something about having him arrested. It didn't worry him much; given how his day was going, jail could only be an improvement. Somehow he managed to avoid begging for the caller to follow up on that threat.

"I'm sorry, my phone is damaged. I didn't catch any of that."

"I said, this is Keller. I need to- where the hell are you?"

The last part was due either to Sideswipe's war-cry as he catapulted himself onto the highway or the honking of horns and squealing of tires as the traffic on the road tried to avoid a head-on collision.

"Going the wrong way down a one-way street," Simmons answered calmly. "Unfortunately, this one-way street happens to be a three-lane highway."

"Why the hell are you doing that?" Keller asked. He sounded genuinely concerned by this.

"What makes you think I have any say in the matter?" Simmons shot back.

"Where in the Pit is my lane?" Sideswipe added in frustration. He dodged around an semi and nearly swatted a motorcycle rider into the concrete barrier.

"It's on the other side of the median."

"What, you mean beyond that barrier thing?"

"Yes."

"There are trees growing there!"

"That's because it's a _median_, you pitiful excuse for a mentally deficient toaster!" Simmons stopped there, because once they started the name-calling thing they would never stop and Sideswipe was the undisputed champion of the sport. "All right. I'm fine. Do you need something, Secretary Keller?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm, uh, getting calls from people about a rogue jet...?"

"Yes," Simmons started. Sideswipe, still playing chicken with traffic,had begun to mutter in Cybertronian and was getting increasingly louder. "Yes, about that. I need you to call General... General..."

"Fairbrooke," Sideswipe offered.

"Thank you. General Fairbrooke and tell him that unless he wants downtown Los Angeles to resemble a parking lot, he'd better call off the Air Force."

"Why didn't you call him?" the secretary demanded.

"I did. I got put on hold, repeatedly, and the general's aide called me a 'ranting lunatic'. Believe it or not, that's been the high point of my day."

"Right," Keller murmured. "I'm assuming this jet is actually a Decepticon?"

"Yes, it is, and no, it's not Starscream," Simmons replied. "I don't know what he's called. All I know is that if we start shooting at him, he's gonna-"

"Skywarp."

"Huh?"

"His name is Skywarp," Sideswipe explained.

"Do I care?" Simmons snapped.

"You should, because it tells you something about him."

"Indeed it does. It tells me that, like all the rest of you, he was named by a five-year-old."

"Ha ha, very funny. What it should tell you is why we can't catch up to him."

"You mean besides the fact that he's a fighter plane and you're... what's the word? Oh yes. He's a fighter plane and you're just plain slow."

In the infamous World of Sideswipe, such words were unforgivable. The 'bot gave a strange shriek, then proceeded to barrage Simmons with what he assumed were the worst insults Sideswipe could think of, all in the Cybertronian language that was precisely pitched for maximum eardrum damage. He probably would have pulled onto the shoulder and dumped Simmons out on his ass but between their current speed and the continuing onslaught of incoming traffic such a stunt would likely kill them both.

"The Autobot gunner Bluestreak had a decent shot but Dum-Dum here told him not to take it," Simmons continued, speaking very loudly and directly in the phone's mouthpiece. "So the Air Force picked up on... Skywarp... and it all went downhill from there."

"And that's another thing!" Sideswipe yelled. "Why do you keep talking like this is all my fault?!"

"_Because it is!_"

"Hey!" Keller interrupted.

"What?!" both human and 'bot bellowed.

"And they let you two live on the same planet?" the secretary asked in bewilderment.

"Hey, the median's ending," Sideswipe chirped, as happy as ever. As if the last five minutes simply hadn't happened. He ducked between a pickup truck and the barrier and slid seamlessly into the proper lane. Simmons glanced over his shoulder, studying the long trail of traffic congestion and minor accidents the Lamborghini had left in his wake.

"If that's all you needed, sir, could you call the general now?" he inquired. Keller was sputtering; Simmons avoided any awkward questions by hanging up.

"Newbie," Sideswipe scoffed. Simmons lifted a brow questioningly, and the mech explained. "Would you be worried by all that if you were on the other side of that call?"

"Not really," Simmons admitted easily. "Disturbing phone calls are the norm now. At least it isn't three in the morning."

"Exactly."

"So what do you think this Skywarp is up to? I mean, he knows you're here, so why hasn't he left the planet yet? From the impression Starscream gave me I thought it was easy for jets to randomly go deep-space."

"Oh, he knows we're here, and he can leave whenever he wants. He just doesn't want to."

"Too scared to do anything but run?" Simmons mused.

"Naw. He's just having fun. He's kinda an idiot."

"Hello pot, kettle calling," the human drawled.

"Huh?"

"Never mind. So... why is he called-- errrk!"

Sideswipe was slamming on the brakes, hard; Simmons looked up in enough time to see the jet _right there_, looming over them, and then the 'bot was spiraling wildly out of control. Simmons watched as the jet flickered, like a television set with bad reception, before simply vanishing. Then Sideswipe was sliding off the road and down the embankment and the world went gray.

--

"This is embarrassing."

"No, Sideswipe," Simmons said hollowly. "Embarrassing was almost leaving your muffler smeared on the curb. Embarrassing was going the wrong way down a three-lane highway for twenty-nine miles. Embarrassing was the entire conversation I had with Secretary Keller, who now thinks I need serious medication. This is not embarrassing. This is humiliating."

"A twenty-minute chase and he takes me out in five seconds without even touching me," the 'bot whined.

"I don't care."

"I mean, I've got a fifty-foot-tall oak tree where my left rear tire used to be."

"Sucks to be you."

"And now you're bleeding all over my upholstery."

That got an actual response from the human, who carefully lifted his head from the headrest. "Well, _Sunstreaker_, I'm sorry if my organic frailty is inconveniencing you. Unfortunately, it's inconveniencing me a hell of a lot more, seeing as to how the term _blood gushing from head wound_ is not and will never be a good thing."

There was a long silence. Then Sideswipe asked, in a small and slightly scared voice, "Are you gonna die?"

"If there's a merciful God in heaven," Simmons answered listlessly. He pried open one eye at the sound of someone yelling his name. "Oh good, the cavalry's here."

Sergeant Epps slid down the hill and ran straight into Sideswipe's front bumper. He carefully maneuvered around to the driver's side and opened the door.

"Are you all right?" the younger man asked breathlessly. Simmons eyes him coldly.

"Ignoring the fact that I've probably got a broken arm and a concussion, I'm dandy. Here- wanna hear a secret?" Before the sergeant could answer, Simmons seized him by the front of his shirt and dragged him down so the agent could whisper into his ear.

"I know why they call him Skywarp."

--

Simmons readjusted his shirt for the ninetieth time in the last thirty seconds. He was once again wearing his Martian head t-shirt, the only shirt he had without long sleeves, and he was bracing himself for the jokes that were sure to come. Jazz at least was going to get a kick out of this.

"We'll need to retake the x-rays in three to four weeks," the nurse was saying. "Until then, the cast stays on. Try not to get it wet."

"I've broken my arm before," Simmons interrupted. The nurse glanced at him and nodded.

"I am worried about your head," she began.

"I happen to know a very competent doctor," he answered. "He agreed to let me move in for a few days."

"Good."

He shot her a fake smile and walked away, heading into the waiting room. As he entered, Epps rose to his feet. Close behind him was Mikaela, who rolled her eyes at the shirt.

"Hey, I'm no happier about it than you are," Simmons told her. He glanced around, then asked quietly, "Any idea what happened with Skywarp?"

"He vanished," Epps answered. "Took off over the Pacific. The Air Force is on standby in case he comes back, but until he does he's not our problem. Prowl says it's highly doubtful he'll do anything, what with all the Autobots here."

"Great. Something to look forward to. How's Sideswipe?"

"Getting chewed out by Ratchet as we speak," Mikaela said. "For the twelfth straight hour."

Simmons realized suddenly that he was tapping his fingers against his cast. He pulled his hand away and smirked.

"Well, well. There is a god."

And with that he walked out.


	20. Hunt for the Red Lamborghini

I know, I know! I promised that special poll chapter next. Except that thing is being damnably stubborn and I got a different idea, what with summer starting and all that.

The high school I went to was the druggie school. You know; the poor kids, the users, and the handicapped kids. It also had the best teachers, the best music program, and a football team that had not lost a game for eight years running. And our prom was unbelievable. My school had a standing agreement with the convention center of one of the richest towns in the country. And so, bribed with a meal from a hideously expensive restaurant, I agreed to go for a little while.

On the way there, I passed an 'adult store', and one of the employees pulled out onto the road and into the side of my car. I was stuck there for forty-five minutes, in my prom dress, getting mad as hell as the evil bitch tried to turn the situation so I was at fault.

Anybody else have any fun prom/high school memories they wanna share?

Disclaimer: me no own.

---

"Why am I here?"

Simmons snorted in annoyance at the repeated question. He returned to tapping his fingers on the cast on his right wrist. It was a bad habit he'd developed within moments of the cast setting. At least he'd managed, by diligence verging on the paranoid, to keep some idiotic sentiment from being written on it. On the other hand, it had mysteriously turned neon pink one morning. Sideswipe was still feeling guilty about the whole incident and therefore Simmons blamed Jazz for the color change.

"Because Sam finally got off his lazy ass and asked Mikaela to the prom," he answered dully, as if by rote. "So we're going dress shopping."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"You're the ride. Now stop complaining."

"Why are _you_ here?"

"I have the credit card."

"The official credit card?" Ironhide asked. Simmons grunted, then tightened his hold on the door handle when he felt the massive truck shift. "I thought that was to be used in emergencies only," the 'bot growled.

Cranky old bastard, Simmons thought. When he'd heard there would be no shooting or blowing up things, he'd demanded to know why his presence was necessary and had been snapping and snarling ever since. Never mind that he was one of the few mechs who wasn't some form of sports car and could actually, if not comfortably, seat more than two people.

"According to those two, this is an emergency." The human sighed and rested his head carefully against the window. Ever since Ratchet's _the human is fragile, do not break it_ lecture, which every single Autobot on Earth had been forced to attend, the 'bots had all been treating their small allies with a newfound caution. In some ways this was annoying beyond all belief, but in other ways it was actually a good thing. Prior to this Ironhide would have given Simmons a ride only if the universe were ending. Now he had to do as asked and couldn't even complain about it, lest Ratchet go medieval on his ass.

Of course, having Grimlock following him around to see if he was going to randomly break down was fairly unnerving, so when this little excursion had been planned he'd jumped at the chance to escape the rex's curiosity.

"Then why aren't you inside?" Ironhide demanded irritably.

"Because the only reason I'm here is the credit card," the human replied.

"They need the credit card to pay, correct?"

Simmons felt his eye twitching. "Yes."

"Then you should be inside."

"I'm fine out here."

Silence. Ironhide clearly wanted to tell him to get lost but fear of Ratchet's reaction held him in check. In fact, the black 'bot probably decided at the very beginning that he had wanted nothing to do with this. He was a weapons specialist. Nowhere in his job description had someone mentioned playing chauffeur on prom-dress-shopping-day. If it weren't for the fact that one of the two humans inside was Sarah Lennox, the wife of his friend and partner Will Lennox, the pickup probably would have chosen to face Ratchet's wrath and driven off long ago.

"Why couldn't they just get a dress at the first place?" the 'bot finally asked.

"Hell, I don't know," Simmons shot back in exasperation. "I'm just a guy; I don't even pretend to understand how the female mind works."

Ironhide growled and shifted again, more noticeably this time. Like most 'bots he had a hard time comprehending the differences in behavior between the two genders. This would, no doubt, go on the list under the heading of 'human weirdness'.

Someone rapped on the truck's window, startling Simmons. He jerked upright and twisted around, staring at the intruder as Ironhide swung his driver's side door open. Sam hefted himself into the seat and scooted over far enough for the door to close again before turning to regard Simmons.

"I need you to do me a favor."

"Please tell me you're talking to him," Simmons gestured towards the dash to indicate the 'him' in question. "Because I've done you plenty of favors, including not strangling your girlfriend despite the Day From Hell routine."

"I need a ride," Sam continued, ignoring him. "To prom. I can't take Bee."

"Why not?"

The teen glanced at the steering wheel, then at the other human. He seemed to be trying to decide which one to answer first, as they had both spoken at the same time. He opened his mouth to answer... then snapped it shut again. A red flush started to spread across his face.

"Because I can't," he half-answered.

"Is he hurt?" Ironhide demanded. His engine started with a throaty roar and he swung wildly out of his parking space.

"No!" Sam yelped, grabbing for his seat belt. Simmons, who had experienced Ironhide's driving often enough to know better, had never taken his off. "No, no, he's not hurt, 'Hide, swear to God he's fine!"

The pickup abruptly stopped in the middle of the road, nearly sending the still-fumbling teen through his windshield. "Oh," he said, sounding vaguely disappointed- if Bee was hurt, odds were there was a fight to be had. After another moment of deliberation he started forward again at a sedate pace, looking for a new parking space.

"Lemme guess," Simmons drawled. "You can't take Bee because Mikaela's ex-boyfriend jock has already seen him, so you want a new, flashier car to impress him."

"Yeah, I know it seems weird to be asking you but you're my best shot," the boy rattled. Simmons frowned and opened his mouth to ask what that meant when something clicked.

"Red Alert?" he asked, laughing in disbelief. "You cannot be serious."

"I know," Sam groaned. "But I told everyone at school that I have a Lamborghini, and, well..."

The older man sighed and rubbed at his forehead as the teen trailed off. Well, indeed. Sideswipe was still sporting some of the damage from his encounter with Skywarp, making it impossible for him to drive anywhere, and Sunstreaker would probably rather die first. This left only one Lamborghini on base, of the same make and model as the twins yet worlds apart in how best to handle him.

"Why not ask Grimlock? You'll be the only ones showing up on a mechanical T-Rex and you won't have to deal with Sergeant Spazz." Ironhide's words were dripping sarcasm. Both humans rolled their eyes and ignored him.

"I thought, since you're friends-" Sam began. Simmons made an impatient gesture and cut him off.

"We're not friends," the older man snapped. "I understand him. I tolerate him, which is more than most of his comrades can say." This was accompanied by a slap to the dashboard; Ironhide merely grunted. "I may even encourage him a little, because his raging paranoia helps make my job easier. That does not make us friends."

"Uh huh," Sam muttered, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "But anyways, I was hoping that you could, y'know, talk him into dropping us off and picking us up and not calling the National Guard out for reinforcements. Can you do that?"

"Nope. Not even gonna try."

"There, see!" Sam threw his hands into the air and turned so he was entreating the steering wheel. "He didn't even consider it. I told Sideswipe this was a stupid idea-"

"Is there any other kind when Sideswipe is involved?" Ironhide interrupted. The teen smoothly ignored this.

"- but no, he says, the man can be reasonable when he wants to-"

This time it was Simmons who cut into Sam's rant. "Look, kid, I'd help if I could. But what you and your partner in idiocy failed to take into account was that I have no real influence over Red Alert."

"Fine. Alright." Sam nodded, staring at the older man in a vaguely wild-eyed manner. "I can deal with that. What time will you be there?"

"Excuse me?" Simmons peered at the boy suspiciously.

"The guidance counselor was complaining that we didn't have enough people signed up yet."

"Signed up for what?"

"General chaperoning duties," Sam shrugged. "You could end up serving food, or checking people in, or standing outside the bathroom to make sure no one does something illegal. They're called the Quickie Control Officers."

The two humans stared at each other for several long moments. "You didn't-" Simmons began.

"Sign you up? Not yet. But I will, if you don't at least try."

Ironhide was laughing, damn him. Simmons scowled at the dashboard, then turned a fierce glare onto the boy in the driver's seat. Neither target seemed overly bothered.

"You think I'm gonna show up for that?" he asked finally.

"You think I can't make you?" Sam countered.

The older man settled himself back into his seat and sneered. This whole prom thing was turning into a class-a nightmare, and he wasn't even in high school.

---

"I'm sorry, you want me to do what?"

"It's only for one night, Red," Simmons said yet again. "You just go to Sam's house, then go pick up Mikaela, drive to the school, and then sit in the parking lot and do nothing. It's very simple. Sideswipe was going to do it, and if _he_ can sit there for hours on end with nothing to do, you certainly can."

Red Alert studied the human standing on the console in front of him. Then he glanced at his other visitor. It was surprisingly easy to forget he was there, although that was probably due to his being in his mech form. Even so, Red Alert carefully maneuvered himself so he was still facing the human but no longer had his back to the much larger 'bot. Optimus Prime might insist that these... Dinobots... were trustworthy, but the security director had never quite believed it. Especially not this one, their self-declared leader. Grimlock was inhabiting the corner of Red Alert's office for no discernible reason; he hadn't said a word since he'd walked in almost twenty minutes ago. He seemed quite content to just lurk there, which greatly unnerved the smaller 'bot.

Simmons made an annoyed noise as he realized that Red Alert's attention was yet again wandering. "Hey, Grimlock! Knock off the Big Bad Scary routine, I'm trying to talk to Red."

The Dinobot didn't actually move, not that Red Alert saw. But somehow he seemed to almost shrink, both in size and in sheer intimidation. The security director watched him silently for several long minutes; when it appeared the rex still wasn't about to leave, he turned back to the human.

"How long did you say it would take?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know," Simmons replied. "Plan on getting back after midnight, at least."

"I cannot." Red Alert nodded once, confirming his own decision. He turned sharply, starting to head over to one of the computers lining the wall, then stopped when he realized Grimlock's sizable bulk made a handy roadblock. The Dinobot lowered his head and stared at the smaller mech sideways; it was a tactic Red Alert had seen before, yet it still hadn't lost its effect. Somehow it was even more intimidating than a head-on stare.

"Why you Red Alert not listen to him Simmons?" Grimlock rumbled. Red Alert drew himself up to his full height- almost reaching the rex's shoulder, now that Grimlock was partially hunched over- and glared at the irritating beast.

"I did listen to him. Unfortunately, I have responsibilities that cannot be ignored, even for only one night. Taking the humans to a school dance is hardly a good use of my time." He turned back to Simmons. "Is this why you brought him in here? To see if you could scare me into agreeing?"

"He's been playing shadow for a few days now," the human shrugged. "I didn't bring him, he just followed me."

"Very well then. Please see to it he follows you out again when you leave." Not the most subtle of hints, but then again, subtle didn't really work on Grimlock.

"It's just one night," Simmons repeated. "We did fine before you showed up, we can hold it together for one night. I absolutely refuse to go on Quickie Patrol."

Red Alert ignored the last comment. "No."

"You didn't even consider it."

"No, I didn't." Here Red Alert turned a gimlet eye on the human. "Much as you didn't even consider supporting me in my attempts to safeguard the human children."

"Safeguard the- you wanted to put a camera in Mikaela's shower!" Simmons shouted in exasperation.

"Yes, well, now I understand that that may have been a bit of an intrusion-"

"_A bit of an intrusion?!_"

"- but my main point is still valid. She has no Autobot assigned to her protection."

"She doesn't need one. There are maybe four living Decepticons on this planet. Three of them are smart enough to stay far away from us and the fourth couldn't sneak up on a _rock_ if his life depended on it. And don't even start with the 'danger from other humans' crap. She lives with her mother, not Norman Bates."

Red Alert scowled at the words. The worst part was, Simmons was correct. Prime himself had vetoed the idea of security cameras, and even Prowl had told him that he might be going a bit overboard.

"Irregardless, my decision still stands. I am not taking the children to prom."

And with that, because he couldn't seem to get them to leave, he strode out.

Simmons let out a strangled screech, throttling the air in front of him. Oh, sure, he and Red Alert were friends. Real good ones. The kind that had no problem abandoning each other to a rabid horde of horny teenagers.

"Why him Sam want Auto-bot lamb-bore-ghee-nee?"

"Because he's a teenager and teenagers are demanding, selfish, whiny little idiots," Simmons ground out. "And because he's a _male_ teenager, so he also has to show off to other male teenagers."

Grimlock grunted. Then he turned that fierce gaze back on Simmons.

"But why him Sam want _Auto-bot_ lamb-bore-ghee-nee?"

Very slowly, the human turned to face him. "As opposed to... what? A normal Lamborghini?"

"Yes." The Dinobot nodded, looking pleased that his point had gotten across.

"He never said he wanted an Autobot. Just a Lamborghini." Simmons gazed thoughtfully at Grimlock, who stared right back unflinchingly. After a moment the human shook himself and smiled broadly.

"Grimlock, you are a genius."

"Of course me Grimlock genius," the rex scoffed. He watched as the human pulled out his cell phone and sat down, then snorted to himself.

As if there had ever been any doubt about his being a genius.

---

Gravel crunched under the Lamborghini's tires as the sleek car purred to a stop in the Witwicky family driveway. Simmons grunted as he pulled himself out. The prom wasn't due to begin for several hours, but Mikaela had been strongly hinting at wanting a fancy dinner at a four-star restaurant before heading to the school. Not that is was any of Simmons' concern- the Lamborghini was here, his part in this charade was done.

"What?" Sam scurried over, staring at the car in front of him. In a black dress suit and matching tie, he could have been going to prom or a funeral. "What is this?"

"A Lamborghini," Simmons answered. He pitched the keys over the car's hood; they bounced off Sam's chest and clattered to the ground. "Nice catch."

"It's black," the teen protested.

"Cars come in many colors, Sam," came the patronizing response.

"But it's not..."

"An Autobot?" Simmons finished. "Nope. Couldn't swing it. I even tried talking Ratchet into repairing Sideswipe sooner but he said no, among many other things."

Sam was still gawking at the car. "How? I mean, did you _buy_ it?"

"Hell no. It's a rental. And I didn't get the insurance, so one scratch on it and I own you."

"But..."

Simmons found himself getting impatient with Sam's reluctance. All right, so it wasn't a self-driving peanut gallery. On the other hand, it wasn't a self-driving peanut gallery. Really, tonight of all nights Sam shouldn't be wanting a car that could- and most certainly would- ask awkward questions at the worst possible moments.

"Take it or leave it, kid," he growled. Sam finally seemed to snap our of his daze. He scooped the keys up and circled the car, studying it closely. He carefully slid into the driver's seat. Simmons watched him for a moment, then turned and headed towards the car that had followed him here.

"S'pose it's been a while since he's actually been in a car that don't drive itself," Jazz noted. The human grunted as he leaned against the driver's door- Jazz being one of the few 'bots who didn't mind such casual treatment- and watched the boy start up the Lamborghini's powerful engine.

"We're getting spoiled," Simmons agreed.

"How'd you think of this, anyway?" the saboteur asked curiously. The human snorted and stepped away, allowing the driver's door to swing open.

"I didn't," he replied. "It was actually Grimlock's idea."

"Really?" Jazz chewed that one over for a moment as the human settled into the driver's seat. Then he gave a verbal shrug and kicked over his own engine. "So where to?"

Simmons sighed rested his forehead carefully against his plaster-encased right wrist. There was going to be a good deal of explaining to be done once the receipt for the loaner came through. Until then...

"I know this nice little place on Seventy-First," he said. "Serves one hell of a Mai Tai."

Jazz chuckled at that. "Mai Tais it is, then."


	21. Calling All Freaks

So.... *nervous laugh* Um, small delay? Minor real-life issues? Abducted by another fandom? Any takers?

I am so sorry, guys. I really tried to get back to this before now but... see above. I promise, no more horrendously long waits. As a gift, I give you long-ish chapter.

Also, it appears we're ignoring the whole second movie, mostly because I didn't really like it. Parts I did- Jetfire as a whole was awesome beyond words, and Simmons working in his mother's sub-shop-on-the-corner was absolute gold- but for most of the movie I found myself going, really?

Disclaimer: me no own.

---

Work for the government, from something as simple as delivering mail all the way up to running your own highly secret agency, and you tended to notice certain patterns. Like the fact that all the weird shit happened all at once, thus guaranteeing your day is as big a headache as possible.

Simmons' day had already featured a Cessna Skyhawk, a mechanical triceratops, and a barrel cactus. After having spent three hours babysitting the Cessna's two passengers, he was quite happy to hand them over to the folks SecDef had sent over so he could crawl home and collapse. Which was why he didn't even pretend to be surprised when his cell phone started to ring the second he let himself into his apartment.

"Yeah?" he asked tiredly, because sardonic cynicism was too much effort to dredge up right then.

"Agent Simmons? Reginald Simmons?" a man asked, voice crackly and high, and Simmons winced at the sound of his name. God, his parents must have hated him to saddle him with that name.

"Again, yeah? Look, if this is some phone service offer or something..."

"Uh, no," the other man squeaked. Then, silence. Simmons sighed and leaned his forehead against the freezer door.

"Okay, time's up. Good night."

"Had a hard day playing with the aliens, Agent?" the man suddenly shot off rapid-fire.

_Uh-oh._ "I don't know what you-"

"Don't deny it, I know all about them," the man continued, still picking up speed. "I know about the giant robots and the Mission City disaster and the lizard people and your secret agency-"

"The lizard people?"

"And I'm going to tell the world and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" came the harsh yell, voice breaking halfway through, before a heavy _clunk_ and the familiar sound of a dial tone.

Simmons sighed and snapped his phone shut. He pulled open the refrigerator, took out a beer, popped off the top and drank it in four huge gulps, and threw the bottle into the sink. Then he allowed himself to think about the call and summed up his entire day in two words:

"Well, shit."

-

"The lizard people?" Jazz laughed. He, at least, was finding this amusing.

"What lizard people?" Red Alert added. Simmons grunted.

"There are no lizard people," he said distractedly. Speaking of lizards, his toothy shadow had yet to make an appearance. The only thing Simmons could think of that was more alarming than Grimlock was missing Grimlock.

"Maybe there are," Sam countered. He folded his arms behind his head and grinned at Simmons. "Maybe they just haven't told you."

Red Alert drew himself up to his full height, reminiscent of someone taking a deep breath in preparation of a long rant. Simmons cut him off.

"There are no lizard people," he repeated firmly and gave Sam a gimlet glare. Ever since Mikaela had left for a road trip with her father, the boy had been aimlessly hanging around. Prowl tended to kick him out every evening but otherwise the kid appeared content to do nothing except wile away his hours on base and annoy people all day.

"Well, you can't know for sure," Jazz reasoned, and Simmons felt his eye start to twitch. "I mean, think of how many people knew about Sector 7. How can you be sure they're not keeping some other, even more secret agency from you?"

"Who are 'they', anyways?" Red Alert demanded. Before the other three could even begin to answer that- thank god for small favors- another 'bot poked his head in through the open doorway.

"Is him Slag still in trouble?" Swoop asked resignedly.

"_Yes!_" Simmons, Jazz, and Sam all yelled at once. Swoop nodded, not remotely surprised by this answer- it hadn't changed from the last seventeen times he'd asked- and disappeared again.

"Don't take hints well, do they?" Sam wondered aloud.

"They've never exactly been th' brightest crayons in th' box," Jazz said apologetically. Then, "Now, 'bout those lizard people-"

"There are no lizard people!"

"I know," the saboteur said soothingly. Be gentle with the crazy man. "So why's this guy think there are?"

"'Cause he's a loon," Sam offered with all the wisdom of a teenager. Simmons pulled another long swig from his jumbo-sized cup of coffee.

He'd done a turn-around and came straight back to base after the mystery call, but all the 'bots could tell him was that the call was made from a downtown LA pay phone, and by the time police made it there the caller himself was long gone. Prime had long ago lost all patience with the cranky, sleep-deprived Simmons and had assigned Jazz to keeping tabs on Simmons' cell phone, in case the guy called back. Red Alert, after his initial freak-out over this quite obvious lapse in security, had also stuck around. Sam had shown up some two hours later and now, sixteen hours after Slag played Duck Hunt with a Cessna and eleven hours after the call itself, the only exciting thing happening was the running bets on how many minutes until Swoop- annoyed and impatient and yet still loyal to his thick-skulled idiot of a teammate- came back to yet again ask the exact same question.

"He's an aquatic bird," Red Alert stated tonelessly, and Simmons almost inhaled coffee.

"No, I mean he's a nutcase. A lunatic. Off his meds. Conspiracy theorist." Sam shrugged. "Look it up."

"Lunatic or not, he's close enough to the truth to be very dangerous," Simmons muttered.

"Isn't it your job t' keep that from happening?" Jazz asked sweetly.

"Well, yes, Jazz, it is, but since you and your trigger-happy friends completely flattened three city blocks within hours of arriving on this planet, I started off at something of a disadvantage," the human snapped back, and the saboteur ducked his head to hide his grin.

"What about the plane Slag brought down with a cactus?" Sam wondered, and Simmons couldn't help but think of that sentence as a sad commentary on his life. Giant mechanical triceratops bringing down a small airplane by means of projectile barrel cactus? Yawn.

"First people I looked at. Slag cut off their radio soon as he spotted them, and they're still signing NDA's and being threatened with life in Guantanamo if they're ever caught even thinking about alien robots, so they haven't had the chance to tell anyone."

"Someone in Mission City, maybe," Jazz offered.

"Or someone who was on the road outside Mission City, or someone who knows someone in Mission City," Simmons added, turning his cup upside-down and watching the last few drops of coffee meander their way down the side. "There were literally thousands of people there, far too many for even the most thorough sweep to have picked up all of them. The only thing keeping those people quiet is fear."

"We won't hurt them," Red Alert muttered stiffly. Simmons thought of Sunstreaker, and Grimlock, and mentally added _unless we have to_ to the end of Red's statement.

"It's not fear of what you'll do," Sam explained, choosing his words carefully- clearly he'd followed the same line of thought as Simmons. "It's fear of the idea of you. Humans are so used to being on top around here that..." He trailed off, gesturing helplessly, and glanced at Simmons. The older human picked up where he left off with ease.

"That they'll gladly accept any story, even if they know it's utter bullshit, just so they don't have to acknowledge how weak and powerless they really are."

Jazz made a sound very similar to 'huh' and settled himself more comfortably onto the 'bot-sized couch Wheeljack had created. Red Alert, however, was scowling. Obviously the idea of living in denial bothered him. Simmons could imagine how he would respond to the saying _what you don't know can't hurt you_. Then again, preparing for every possible worst-case scenario was his job.

Conversation died at that point and for several long minutes, the foursome merely sat around waiting for something to happen. Simmons rolled the empty cup between his hands and yawned widely. He still hadn't gotten any sleep yet. He was debating if it was worth the wasted energy to get up and get a refill when his phone rang.

Simmons and Sam both jumped and Jazz gave a small jerk. Red Alert, who constantly lived in a state of high alert and couldn't really get more jumpy than he normally was, didn't even twitch.

"Banachek," Simmons said after a glance at the screen. Sam said something in reply that would most likely cause his old-fashioned parents to literally wash his mouth out. In some small token attempt at privacy, Simmons forced himself to his feet and wandered into the hallway before answering.

"I heard about the call," Tom said without preamble. Simmons snorted.

"Aquatic bird gone off his meds. I'm not worried."

Tom Banachek, far too used to his former partner's weirdness to be thrown by one odd statement, didn't miss a beat. "Well, I have news regarding your bird's information source. You tell me if and when he calls back..."

"Yeah, deal," Simmons answered without hesitation. Tom was one of the few people whose trustworthiness had never been called into question. He listened to what his friend had to say and nodded in resignation. Honestly, he should have expected this.

It was always the Autobots' fault. Always.

-

"How did you get here?" Simmons asked conversationally as he reentered the room. The looks he got from the two 'bots told him immediately that, miracle of miracles, neither had eavesdropped on the call.

"Walked in right behind you," Jazz said slowly, curious.

"Walked here. Tell me, how long does it take to walk here from Cybertron?"

"Ah, well, from Cybertron we took a ship," the saboteur replied. "Left it out past th' moon."

"All right. Repeat after me: The moon is not an interplanetary parking lot."

"Wow," Sam muttered, eyes wide. "This guy saw their ship?"

"Ships, as in plural," Simmons growled. "And probably; NORAD certainly did."

"That's impossible," Red Alert began, looking as though he were working himself up to a nice long lecture.

"Nutcases like this guy tend to have big telescopes with long lenses," Sam cut in before either the 'bot or Simmons could speak their minds. There was a long, awkward pause.

"Oops," Jazz said finally. "Our bad. We'll move 'em. 'S that all?"

"Is him Slag still in trouble?"

Simmons turned on the intruding Dinobot with a snarl, fully intending to tell at least one of these idiot machines exactly what he thought about them, but stopped when he abruptly realized that the words were the same as always but the voice had undergone a drastic change.

"Um," Sam said stupidly, blinking at the hulking giant in front of them.

"Naw," Jazz stepped in smoothly. "'s all cool, Sludge, go ahead an' tell him he's free. No more cactus throwin', though."

Sludge- someone really had to get them new names- nodded and lumbered out. The two humans gaped after him.

"Damn he's big," Sam muttered. "Never seen him that close before."

Simmons, however, was going down a different mental track. "Where does he hide all day? And the other two? The only ones I see on a semi-regular basis are Fangs and Wings."

"Fangs and...?" Jazz began, starting to laugh. Red Alert spoke over him.

"They stay within base limits, Agent. They might not be the smartest of 'bots but they don't go wandering around where humans could easily see them." There was a challenge in those words.

"You're using the _moon_ as a _parking lot_!" Simmons yelled.

"I have the boundary lines very clearly marked and monitored, not to mention I received clearance and agreement on the base area limits from the United States military-"

"You think someone trespassed and saw one of Grimlock's crew?" Sam interrupted. Red Alert kept right on going, but by now he was talking more to himself anyways.

"It's a no-fly zone and yet Slag still brought down a Cessna today," Simmons answered grimly. "It'd also explain why this nut waited to call until a year after Mission City. He saw one of the dinos and put the pieces together."

"An' why you got th' call, since it's your name on all th' paperwork," Jazz added. All three considered the implications for a moment.

"We've been careless," Simmons decided, glancing at Jazz. "Go get Prime."

"Already on his way."

"Can we move your ships without causing more problems?" Sam asked, and the saboteur shrugged.

"Prob'ly. Th' hard part'll be gettin' to 'em."

The teen started to ask something else but was cut off by Simmons' cell. All movement in the room immediately ceased as he flipped the phone opened and gave a wary 'hello'.

"...I didn't tell no one yet," the other man muttered, sounding like a scolded child.

"I noticed," Simmons replied, gesturing to Jazz. The 'bot nodded confidently- he'd already traced the call and probably had even sent the cops out to fetch the caller. "What makes you think anyone will believe you if you did?"

"'Cause I'm right."

"Being right has never been a point of interest in the journalism world. Being believable, though, that's a big one." Simmons glanced up as Optimus Prime entered the room, moving with surprisingly stealth for such a big guy.

"They'll believe me," came the pout of a reply. Simmons didn't bother to address this- he could hear the whisper of sirens over the line and knew he was probably about to lose the guy.

"What do you want?" he asked, silently cursing the idiot cops and their damn sirens.

"To meet one of them," the man replied, sounding almost dreamy. Then he swore as the sirens increased and slammed the phone down with a vengeance. Simmons sighed and hung up.

"Well, that ain't gonna happen," Jazz snorted.

"What's not happening?" Sam, the only one in the room who hadn't heard both halves of the phone conversation, was already impatient.

"It's our best chance to catch this guy, especially if he's only seen the Dinobots and doesn't realize you lot can transform into cars and whatever," Simmons pointed out.

"Allow an unauthorized, unknown human to enter the base?" Red Alert demanded furiously. He turned to his CO and continued his rant. "Absolutely not. I forbid it, Prime."

"Chill, Red," Jazz tried.

"Their size is deceptive," the security chief rolled right over him. "There are so many potentially dangerous items they can hide on themselves. Have you ever heard of C-4?"

"Yes, I have," Prime answered evenly. "Yet if Simmons is correct, this man has already had plenty of opportunities to do something but has not."

Red Alert fell silent. He looked a little ill, if such could be said of a mech. After a moment, he turned and headed out the door, weaving a little.

"I think we just turned his world on its ear," Sam muttered, surprisingly sympathetic.

"Worst. We told him his security measures aren't good enough." Simmons shook his head and smirked. "My vote is, we go with it. Off-base; we don't wanna give Red a 'bot-coronary."

"Go with what?" Sam demanded irritably, once more out of the loop. Prime hesitated, clearly about to say no, and Simmons hurried on with explaining his plan.

"I'll take Sunstreaker- he's big and pissy, he'll scare the crap out of just about anyone. Or Grimlock if the guy's expecting a Dinobot. I dealt with these sort of things all the time before, Prime, and I can guarantee you that this guy is basically harmless. Scare him good enough and he'll leave us alone."

"He wants to meet one of the 'bots?" Sam reasoned. He was ignored.

"We're not doing anything unless he calls back," Prime pointed out. "If he does, we'll discuss it then."

"Can I go?" the teen asked, addressing Simmons. Obviously Prime no longer got a say in the matter.

"He calls again, we'll be ready," Jazz, at least, made the effort to be a good little soldier for his boss. "No sirens next time."

"Sirens?"

"We'll see," Simmons agreed calmly. Ultimately Prime would have to side with him to avoid the potential for a public spectacle. He turned on his heel and strode out, aiming in the same general direction Sludge had wandered off in, knowing the others would follow. He was right.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, jogging a little to catch up.

"Have a chat with Fangs," Simmons replied breezily. "He'll enjoy this."

"Not Grimlock," Prime said, tone mellow with an undercurrent of steel. He didn't offer an explanation, but then, he didn't really need to.

Simmons slowed considerably as he debated his Grimlock-free options- Prime's tone had brooked absolutely no arguments. After a moment he smiled.

"Not Grimlock, right," he said agreeably. "So for plan B- anyone have any idea where Mirage hides out?"

"I do. What's th' plan?" Jazz countered, and Simmons told him. It didn't take long; it was a relatively straightforward plan, dependent upon Mirage's antisocial nature. After a moment's deliberation, Jazz turned to face Prime.

"I'll do it," he offered, which in no way surprised anyone. Prime simply nodded, already resigned to the fact that this was happening with or without him. Better for him to stick around to keep the train from jumping the tracks entirely.

"Fair enough. But the two of you get to convince Mirage."

And there was a snag. Prime clearly had no intention of ordering the spy to help. Simmons promptly turned to the saboteur.

"You handle him, he hates me."

Jazz shrugged and wandered off. Simmons watched him go. There was another option if Mirage didn't feel like cooperating, but the spy was much more efficient and less likely to slip up.

"You're enjoying this," Sam said accusingly, staring at Simmons. The older man grinned shamelessly.

"I used to do stuff like this for a living, kid."

"Well, good for you, 'cause Mirage still does," the boy shot back sourly. He was upset at being calmly and politely told _hell no_ when he repeated his request to join Simmons and Jazz.

Simmons mulled that one over for a moment. Honestly, he had no idea what the spy did for the Autobots, save the obvious. He did, however, know for a fact that Mirage had to be damned good at it to get away with it for so long. Autobot and Decepticon alike were all scattered survivors; heroes and spies- Prime and Mirage- should have been among the first casualties.

"He's cool with it," Jazz announced, nearly giving Simmons a heart attack as he magically popped up beside the human. Simmons half-turned away, biting back the instinctive urge to yell at and/or shoot the 'bot. Obviously it was time for a recap of Ratchet's 'fragile humans, do not break' speech, which had been humiliating and alarming to the humans in question, but made all the mechs on-base tread very carefully around the organics lest they invoke the Wrath Of Ratchet.

Plus the last time Ratchet had given that speech Grimlock had followed Simmons around for weeks, and although he'd rather have an anesthesia-free root canal before admitting it, he'd gotten kind of used to the lizard.

"So are we good to go then?" he asked after a moment to recover, shifting to look at Prime.

Prime looked rather remarkably as though he were regretting ever including himself in this mess. This was shaping up to be one of those 'the less I know the happier I'll be' scenarios. He tilted his head in a way that could be interpreted as a nod and walked away. Simmons couldn't help but smirk- plausible deniability was such a powerful tool.

"All right, Jazz, if we're gonna be waiting for this bird to call back, I'm gonna need more coffee." He held up his empty cup and turned it so Jazz could see the gas station logo on the side. "How fast can you get there or back without breaking any laws?"

"Traffic laws or physics?" came the grinning reply.

"You're going on a coffee run?" Sam asked in disbelief, and Simmons shrugged.

"Oh yeah." He watched as Jazz transformed and circled around to the driver's door, leaning briefly against the Porsche as he regarded the teen. "I'm gonna need it. I can already tell, this is going to be a very long day."

-

to be continued....

a/n: and quickly, I promise!


End file.
